BY" 

LTWRfl.E 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


AJA 


/  ( 


XARCISSA 


IN     YE R OX A 


Books  by  Laura  E.  Richards. 

Melody.     The  Story  of  a  Child.     i6mo,  cloth,  50 
cents. 

Had  there  never  been  a  "  Captain  January,"  "  Melody  " 
would  easily  take  first  place  —Boston  Times. 

The  quaintly  pretty,  touching,  old-fashioned  story  is  told 
with  perfect  grace,  the  few  persons  who  belong  to  it  are 
touched  in  with  destinctness  and  with  sympathy.  —  Mil 
waukee  Sentinel. 

Captain   January.      Square    i6mo,  cloth  (white 
back),  50  cents. 


admirers 

Same.     Illustrated  Holiday  Edition.    With  thirty 

half-tone  pictures  from  drawings  by  Frank  T. 

Merrill.     410,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Narcissa,   and   a   companion    Story,  In  Verona. 

161110,  c'oth,  50  cents. 
When   I   was  Your   Age.     410,  cloth,  gilt  top, 

$,-2S. 

The  title  most  happily  introduces  the  reader  to  the 
harming  honi2  life  of  Dr.  Howe  and  Mrs.  Julia  Ward 
lowe,  during  the-  childhood  of  the  author. 


i2mo,  c:otn,  $1.50. 
With  true  literary  toujh,  she  gives  us  the  story  of  son 
of  the  salient  figures  of  this  remarkable  period. 

Marie.      Square  i6mo   50  cents 


Estes  &  Lauriat,  Publishers,  Boston. 


]ST  AECIS8  A 

OK 

THE   ROAD   TO    ROME 


IN  VERONA 


BY 

LAURA  E.  RICHARDS 

AUTHOR  OF   "CAPTAIN  JANUARY,"    "MELODY,' 
"  QUEEN  HILDEGAKDE,"  ETC. 


ELEVENTH  THOUSAND 


BOSTON 
ESTES    &    LAURIAT 

1894 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  THE  Two  TALES  PUBLISHING  Co. 

Copyright,  1894, 
BY  LAURA  E.  RICHARDS. 

Copyright,    1894, 
BY  ESTES  AND  LAURIAT. 


All  Eights  Reserved. 


SBfofocrsttg 

JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


"PS 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

NARCISSA 3 

I.     DREAMING 3 

II.     WAKING 21 

IN  VERONA        .43 


694956 


NARCISSA. 


NARCISSA. 


THE  ROAD  TO  ROME. 
$art  I. 

DREAMING. 

"NTAKCISSA  was  sitting  in  the  doorway,  feeding  the 
•*•  *  young  turkeys.  It  was  the  back  door  of  the 
old  gray  house,  —  no  one  would  have  thought  of  sitting 
in  the  front  doorway,  —  and  there  were  crooked  flag 
stones  leading  up  to  it,  cracked  and  seamed,  with  grass 
growing  in  the  cracks.  Close  by  the  door-post,  against 
which  the  girl  was  leaning,  stood  a  great  bush  of  tansy, 
with  waving  feathery  leaves  and  yellow  blossoms,  like 
small  gold  buttons.  Narcissa  was  very  fond  of  this 
tansy-bush,  and  liked  to  pluck  a  leaf  and  crush  it  in 
her  hands,  to  bring  out  the  keen,  wholesome  smell. 
She  had  one  in  her  hand  now,  and  was  wondering  if 
ever  any  one  had  a  dress  of  green  velvet,  tansy-color, 
with  gold  buttons.  The  minister's  wife  once  had  a 
bow  of  green  velvet  on  her  black  straw  bonnet,  and 
Narcissa  had  loved  to  look  at  it,  and  to  wish  it  were 
somewhere  else,  with  things  that  belonged  to  it.  She 


4  NARCISSA. 

often  thought  of  splendid  clothes,  though  she  had 
never  seen  anything  finer  than  the  black  silk  of  the 
minister's  wife,  and  that  always  made  her  think  of  a 
newly-blacked  stove.  When  she  was  younger,  she  had 
made  a  romance  about  every  scrap  of  silk  or  satin  in 
the  crazy-quilt  that  Aunt  Pinker's  daughter,  the  mil 
liner,  had  sent  her  one  Christmas.  The  gown  she  had 
had  out  of  that  yellow  satin  —  it  did  her  good  to  think 
about  it  even  now !  —  and  there  was  a  scrap  of  pale 
pink  silk  which  came  —  was  it  really  nothing  but 
fancy  ?  —  from  a  long,  trailing  robe,  trimmed  with 
filmy  lace  (the  lace  in  the  story-papers  was  always 
filmy),  in  which  she  had  passed  many  happy,  dreamy 
hours. 

It  never  occurred  to  Narcissa  that  she  needed  no 
fine  clothes  to  set  off  her  beauty ;  in  truth,  she  never 
dreamed  that  she  had  any  beauty.  Color  meant  so 
much  to  her,  that  she  had  always  accepted  the  general 
verdict  that  she  was  "  pindlin'-lookin',"  and  joined  sin 
cerely  in  the  chorus  of  praise  which  always  greeted 
the  rosy  cheeks  and  solid-looking  yellow  hair  of 
Delilah  Parshley,  who  lived  at  the  next  house  below 
the  old  gray  one. 

Yet  it  was  true  that  Narcissa  had  no  need  of  finery  • 
and  it  was  a  pretty  picture  she  made,  sitting  in  the 
doorway,  leaning  against  the  door-post.  Her  hair  was 
nearly  black,  with  no  gloss  or  sparkle,  only  a  soft, 
dusky  cloudiness.  It  curled  in  little  rings  about  her 


NARCISSA.  5 

broad,  low  forehead,  and  round  her  soft,  pale  cheeks. 
Her  eyes  were  dusky,  too,  but  more  gray  than  brown, 
and  the  only  vivid  color  was  in  the  scarlet  line  of  her 
lips.  There  was  nothing  unhealthy  in  her  clear  pallor, 
no  hint  of  sallowness,  but  a  soft,  white  glow.  The 
nostrils  of  her  little  straight  nose  were  cut  high,  which 
gave  them  a  look  of  being  always  slightly  dilated; 
this  caused  the  neighbors  to  say  that  Narcissa  White 
was  proud,  though  dear  knew  what  she  had  to  be 
proud  of.  As  for  her  dress,  it  was  of  blue  jean,  a  good 
deal  faded,  but  all  the  better  for  that ;  and  her  white 
apron,  though  coarse,  was  spotless  and  carefully 
starched. 

The  turkeys  seemed  to  approve  of  her  appearance, 
for  they  gathered  eagerly  round  her,  trying  to  get  their 
beaks  into  the  dish  she  held,  gobbling  and  fluttering, 
and  making  a  great  commotion.  Narcissa  was  fond  of 
the  turkeys,  and  had  names  for  all  her  favorites.  The 
finest  young  gobbler  was  called  Black  Diamond,  and 
he  was  apt  to  take  unfair  advantage  of  his  mistress's 
partiality,  and  to  get  more  than  his  share.  So  noisy 
they  all  were,  that  Narcissa  did  not  hear  the  sound  of 
approaching  footsteps,  nor  know  that  some  one  had 
spoken  to  her  twice  in  vain,  and  was  now  standing  in 
silent  amusement,  watching  the  struggle  for  food. 

It  was  a  young  man  who  had  come  so  lightly  up  the 
steps  of  the  old  house  that  no  sound  had  been  heard. 
He  had  gone  first  to  the  front  door,  but  his  knock  had 


6  NARCISSA. 

brought  no  answer,  and  catching  the  flutter  of  Nar- 
cissa's  apron  he  had  corne  round  to  the  back  porch 
and  was  standing  within  three  feet  of  the  girl  and  her 
clamorous  brood. 

A  very  young  man,  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  yet 
with  a  steady,  manly  look  in  his  blue  eyes,  which  con 
tradicted  the  boyish  curves  of  cheek  and  chin.  He 
was  plainly  but  neatly  dressed,  and  he  carried  in  one 
hand  a  small  satchel,  such  as  travelling  agents  affect. 
His  eyes  were  bright  and  quick,  and  glanced  about 
with  keen  interest,  taking  in  every  outline  of  the 
house,  but  coming  always  back  to  the  girl  who  sat  in 
the  doorway,  and  who  was  unlike  any  girl  he  had  seen 
before.  The  house  was  dim  and  gaunt,  with  a  look  of 
great  age.  One  did  not  often,  in  this  part  of  the  coun 
try,  see  such  tall  doors,  such  quaint  chimneys,  such 
irregular  outlines  of  roof  and  gable.  The  green-painted 
front  door,  with  its  brass  knocker,  and  its  huge,  old- 
world  hinges,  seemed  to  him  a  great  curiosity ;  so  did 
the  high  stone  steps,  whose  forlorn  dignity  suffered 
perpetual  insult  from  the  malapert  weeds  and  grasses 
that  laughed  and  nodded  through  the  cracks  and 
seams. 

And  in  the  dim,  sunken  doorway  sat  this  girl,  her 
self  all  soft  and  shadowy,  with  a  twilight  look  in  her 
eyes  and  in  her  dusky  hair.  The  turkeys  were  the  only 
part  of  it  all  that  seemed  to  belong  to  the  sort  of  life 
about  here,  the  hard,  bustling  life  of  New  England  farm- 


NARCISSA.  7 

people,  such  as  he  had  seen  at  the  other  houses  along 
the  way.  If  it  were  not  for  the  turkeys,  he  felt  that 
he  should  hardly  find  courage  to  speak,  for  fear  it  might 
all  melt  away  into  the  gathering  twilight,  —  house, 
maiden,  and  all,  —  and  leave  nothing  but  the  tall  elms 
that  waved  their  spectral  arms  over  the  sunken  roofs. 

As  it  was,  however,  —  as  the  turkeys  were  making 
such  a  racket  that  the  girl  would  never  become  aware 
of  his  presence  unless  he  asserted  himself  in  some 
way,  —  he  stepped  boldly  forward  and  lifted  his  hat, 
for  he  had  been  taught  good  manners,  if  he  was  a 
tree-agent. 

"  Excuse  me,  lady,"  he  said.  "  Is  this  the  road  to 
Eome  ? " 

Narcissa  started  violently,  and  came  out  of  her 
dream.  She  had  actually  been  dressed  in  the  green 
velvet,  and  was  fastening  the  last  gold  button,  ready  to 
step  into  the  chariot  that  was  waiting  for  her,  —  she 
loved  the  word  chariot,  though  the  pictures  in  the 
Bible  made  her  feel  uncertain  about  the  manner  of 
riding  in  one,  —  and  to  drive  along  the  road,  the  road  to 
Home.  How  strange  that  at  this  very  moment  some 
one  should  ask  about  the  road  ! 

She  raised  her  eyes,  still  shining  with  the  dream- 
light,  and  looked  attentively  at  the  stranger. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  answered.  "  This  is  the  road,  —  the 
road  to  Eome.  But  it 's  a  long  way  from  here,"  she 
added,  rousing  herself,  and  rising  from  her  seat.  "  Shoo  ! 


g  NARCISSA. 

go  away,  now ;  "  and  she  waved  a  signal  of  dismissal 
with  her  apron  which  the  turkeys  understood,  and  at 
sight  of  which  they  withdrew,  not  without  angry 
duckings  and  gobblings  directed  at  the  disturber  of 
their  evening  meal. 

"  Won't  you  set  down  and  rest  a  spell  ?  It 's  ben 
real  hot  to-day,  though  it 's  some  cooler  now." 

"  It  has  so  !  "  assented  the  young  man,  taking  off  his 
hat  again  to  wipe  his  brow,  and  dropping  his  satchel 
on  the  doorstep. 

"  I  should  be  pleased  to  set  a  few  minutes,  if  I  'm 
not  intruding.  And  do  you  suppose  I  could  have  a 
drink  of  water,  if  it  would  n't  be  too  much  trouble  ?  " 

Narcissa  went  away  without  a  word,  and  brought 
back  the  water,  ice-cold  and  clear  as  crystal,  in  a  queer 
brown  mug  with  a  twisted  handle,  and  an  inscription 
in  white  letters. 

"  I  'm  sorry  I  have  n't  got  a  glass,"  she  said.  "  But 
the  water  is  good." 

The  young  man  drank  deeply,  and  then  looked  curi 
ously  at  the  mug.  "  I  'd  rather  have  this  than  a  glass," 
he  said.  "  It 's  quite  a  curiosity,  ain't  it  ?  'Be  Merry  ! ' 
Well,  that 's  a  good  sentiment,  I  'm  sure.  Thank  you, 
lady.  I  ?m  ever  so  much  obliged." 

"  You  no  need  to,"  responded  Narcissa,  civilly. 

"I  —  I  don't  suppose  you  want  any  trees  or  plants 
to  set  out,  do  you  ? "  said  the  stranger.  "  I  am  travel 
ling  for  a  house  near  Portland,  and  I  Ve  got  some  first- 
rate  things,  —  real  chances,  I  call  "em." 


NARCISSA.  9 

"I  —  guess  not,"  said  Narcissa,  with  an  apprehen 
sive  glance  over  her  shoulder.  "I  only  keep  house  for 
the  man  here,  —  he  's  my  father's  uncle,  —  and  he  don't 
buy  such  things.  I  wish  "  —  she  sighed,  and  looked 
longingly  at  the  black  satchel.  "  I  suppose  you  Ve  got 
roses,  have  you,  and  all  kinds  of  flowers  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so !  "  replied  the  youth,  proudly. 
"  Our  house  is  the  greatest  one  in  the  State  for  roses. 
Let  me  show  you  some  pictures."  He  opened  the 
satchel  and  took  out  a  black  order-book  filled  with 
brilliant  pictures. 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  Narcissa,  "I  —  I  guess  I 'd  better  not 
look  at  'em.  I  don't  believe  he  'd  like  it.  Not  but  what 
I  'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  added,  hastily. 

But  the  stranger  had  already  opened  the  book. 

"  Just  look  here,  lady,"  he  said.  "  Why,  it  can't  do 
no  manner  of  hurt  for  you  to  look  at  them.  Just  see 
here  !  Here 's  the  Jacqueminot  rose,  the  finest  in  the 
world,  some  folks  think.  Why,  we  Ve  got  beds  and 
beds  of  it.  Splendid  grower,  and  sweet  —  well  there  ! 
I  can't  give  you  any  idea  of  it.  Cornelia  Cook !  that 's 
a  great  rose  nowadays.  And  here  's  a  white  blush, 
that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  —  " 

Here  he  stopped  suddenly;  for  it  was  Narcissa's 
cheek  that  the  rose  was  like,  he  thought,  and  it  came 
to  him  suddenly  that  he  did  not  want  to  say  such 
things  to  this  girl. 

The  girl  at  the  house  below,  when  he  had  paid  her 


10  NARCISSA. 

compliments,  had  laughed  in  his  face,  well  pleased,  and 
seemed  to  ask  for  more ;  but  she  was  an  ordinary  girl, 
like  other  folks.  This  soft,  shadowy  maiden  might 
shrink  away,  and  vanish  in  the  dusky  porch,  if  he 
should  touch  her  rudely. 

He  need  have  had  no  fear,  for  Narcissa  would  hardly 
have  heard  or  understood  his  compliment.  She  was 
gazing  with  hungry  eyes  at  the  bright  pictures,  drink 
ing  in  every  shade  of  crimson  and  scarlet  and  gold. 

"  Oh,  stop  ! "  she  cried  eagerly.  "  Oh,  may  I  read 
about  that  one  ?  Ain't  it  beautiful !  May  I  ? " 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  might ! "  replied  the  gal 
lant  agent,  holding  the  book  toward  her.  "  Here,  lean 
right  over  me ;  I  'd  like  to  read  it  too." 

" '  This  grand  rose,' "  Narcissa  read  aloud, " '  has  created 
an  epoch  in  rose-growing.  Of  free  habit  and  luxurious 
growth,  the  plants  form  the  most  splendid  ornament 
of  garden  or  hot-house.  The  beautiful,  perfectly- 
shaped  flowers  show  a  marvellous  blending  of  colors, 
in  which  a  rich  apricot  predominates,  shading  into 
light  pink,  bright  canary,  and  pale  yellow.  The  outer 
petals  are  grandly  recurved,  forming  a  fine  contrast  to 
the  Camellia-like  inner  petals.  With  its  rare  and 
exquisite  fragrance,  its  bold  and  beautiful  foliage,  and 
the  unparalleled  profusion  with  which  its  splendid 
blossoms  are  borne,  we  claim  that  this  rose  is  absolutely 
without  a  rival.'  " 

Narcissa   drew  a  long  breath  and   looked  up,  her 


NARCISSA.  11 

eyes  full  of  awe  and  admiration.  "  Ain't  that  elegant  ? " 
she  said  simply.  "They  have  great  writers  there, 
don't  they?" 

The  youth  smiled,  as  he  thought  of  little  Mr. 
Bimsey,  who  "  got  up "  the  catalogues  and  kept  the 
accounts;  then,  reminded  by  this  and  by  the  fading 
light  that  he  had  still  a  good  way  to  go  before  night 
fall,  he  added,  rising  reluctantly  from  his  seat,  — • 

"  I  must  be  going,  I  guess.  You  have  n't  any 
notion  how  far  it  might  be  to  Rome,  have  you,  lady  ? " 

Narcissa  shook  her  head. 

"  It 's  a  long  way,"  she  said.  "  When  Uncle  Pinker 
goes  there  with  the  turkeys  in  the  fall,  it  takes  him 
the  whole  day  to  go  and  come." 

"  You  have  n't  got  a  map  of  the  county  ?  "  persisted 
the  youth.  "  I  'd  ought  to  have  one  myself,  and  I 
guess  I  shall  have  to  get  me  one.  I  'm  a  stranger  in 
these  parts." 

Narcissa  shook  her  head  again.  "  We  have  n't  got 
any  kind  of  a  map,  as  I  know  of,"  she  said ;  but  next 
moment  her  face  brightened.  "  We  Ve  got  a  picture 
of  Rome,"  she  said,  —  "a  real  handsome  picture. 
Would  you  like  to  see  it  ? " 

"  Well,  if  it  ain't  too  much  trouble." 

Narcissa  led  the  way  into  the  house,  cautioning  the 
stranger  to  tread  softly.  "  Uncle  Pinker  is  asleep," 
she  said.  "  He  's  real  old,  and  he  sleeps  in  the  after 
noon,  most  times.  He  's  so  deef,  he  would  n't  hear  you 


!2  NARCISSA. 

most  likely,  but  you  never  can  count  on  deef  folks. 
Not  but  what  he  'd  be  pleased  to  see  you,"  she 
added,  with  a  doubtful  look  at  a  closed  door  as  she 
passed  it. 

"  I  'd  ought  to  make  you  acquainted  with  my  name, 
seem  's  though,"  said  the  agent,  following  her  into  a 
dim,  dreary  room.  "  My  name 's  Patten,  —  Eomulus 
Patten."  He  paused,  and  then  went  on:  "Folks 
always  ask  how  I  got  my  name,  so  I  get  into  the  way 
of  firing  right  ahead  before  they  ask.  My  mother  got 
it  out  of  the  history  book.  She  was  a  great  hand 
for  history,  my  mother  was.  It  seems  queer,  my 
going  to  Eome,  don't  it  ?  They  made  consid'able  fun 
about  it,  down  to  our  place,  but  I  'm  used  to  that, 
and  don't  mind  it." 

There  was  no  answering  gleam  in  Narcissa's  lovely 
eyes.  "  Romulus  ?  was  he  in  the  Revolution  ? "  she  asked. 
"  I  had  to  leave  school  before  we  got  through  history. 
I  'd  only  got  as  far  as  the  Battle  of  Lexington,  when 
Aunt  Pinker  died,  and  I  had  to  come  and  keep  house 
for  Uncle  Pinker.  It  was  rea]  interim',"  she  added, 
with  a  little  sigh  of  regret,  "  I  wish 't  I  could  have 
finished  history." 

Romulus  Patten  flushed  with  shame  and  anger,  —  not 
at  the  girl,  but  at  the  sordid  people  who  had  kept  her 
in  ignorance.  He  had  gone  through  General  History 
himself,  and  having  a  good  memory,  considered  him 
self  very  well  up  in  such  matters.  When  he  came  back, 


NARCISSA.  13 

he  thought,  perhaps  he  might  manage  to  stop  a  spell,  and 
tell  her  a  little  about  things.  Romulus  in  the  Revo 
lution  !  it  was  a  scandalous  shame,  and  she  so  sweet 
and  pretty ! 

But  here  was  the  picture  of  Rome,  and  Narcissa 
turning  with  gentle  pride  to  introduce  him  to  it. 

"  Ain't  it  handsome  ? "  she  cried  with  enthusiasm. 
"  I  do  like  to  look  at  it  the  most  of  anything,  seem  's 
though.  I  think  you  're  real  fortunate  to  be  going 
there,  Mr.  —  Mr.  Patten." 

She  was  silent,  gazing  with  delight  that  was  fresh 
every  time  her  eyes  rested  on  the  beloved  picture ; 
and  Romulus  Patten  was  silent  too. 

What  was  it  he  saw  ? 

A  steel  engraving,  dim  and  gray,  like  the  house,  like 
the  walls  on  which  it  hung ;  framed  in  dingy  gold, 
spotted  and  streaked.  Within,  as  in  a  dull  mirror, 
appeared  towers  and  temples,  columned  porticos  and 
triumphal  arches :  the  whole  seemed  to  be  steeped  in 
pale  sunshine;  in  the  background  rose  a  monstrous 
shape  which  Romulus'  practised  eye,  familiar  with 
the  illustrations  in  the  General  History,  recognized 
as  the  Coliseum.  "  That 's  Rome  ! "  said  Narcissa, 
softly.  "  Ain't  it  elegant  ? " 

The  young  man  glanced  at  her,  with  a  light  of 
sympathetic  amusement  in  his  eyes.  This  was  her 
little  joke ;  he  had  hardly  thought  she  would  make 
jokes,  she  was  so  quiet.  But  the  smile  faded  into  a 


14  NARCISSA. 

look  of  bewilderment,  which  quickly  strove  to  efface 
itself ;  for  Narcissa  was  not  in  jest.  She  was  gazing 
at  the  picture  with  a  rapt  look,  with  almost  passionate 
enjoyment.  She  had  forgotten  him  for  the  moment, 
and  had  entered  the  city  of  her  dreams  as  she  so  often 
entered  it,  robed  in  velvet  and  satin  (it  was  the  tansy- 
colored  velvet  this  time,  and  the  buttons  were  very 
splendid  indeed,  and  she  had  a  bunch  of  roses  in  her 
hand),  riding  in  a  chariot.  She  was  passing  under 
those  wonderful  arches ;  that  soft,  mysterious  sun 
shine  wrapped  her  in  a  cloud  of  glory.  Presently 
she  would  meet  other  beings,  splendidly  dressed  like 
herself,  who  would  greet  her  with  smiles,  and  tell  her 
of  other  strange  and  beautiful  things  that  she  was 
going  to  see.  Ah,  to  be  in  Rome  !  to  be  really  going 
there ! 

"Ain't  it  handsome?"  she  repeated,  turning  her 
soft  eyes  on  her  companion.  "  You  're  real  fortunate 
to  be  going  there." 

Romulus  Patten  stammered.  "  You  —  you  're  sure 
that  is  Rome  ? "  he  said.  "  This  same  Rome,  down 
east  here  ?  It  don't  hardly  seem  just  like  a  down-east 
place,  does  it  ? " 

The  soft  eyes  grew  wide,  and  the  lips  smiled  a  little. 
"  Why,  it  says  so  !  "  said  Narcissa.  "  See  here,  right 
under  the  picture,  '  ROME.'  So  it  couldn't  be  any 
place  else,  could  it  ?  " 

"  I  —  I    suppose  not,"    murmured   Romulus,  hang- 


NARCISSA.  15 

ing  his  head;  like  one  found  in  an  unpardonable 
ignorance. 

"  I  hope  to  go  there  some  day,"  the  girl  went  on. 
"  It 's  never  been  so  I  could,  yet ;  and  folks  don't  go 
much  from  about  here.  Ain't  it  queer  ?  They  '11  go  the 
other  way,  to  Tupham,  and  Cyrus,  and -other  places 
that 's  just  like  —  like  to  home  here,  —  "  and  she  gave 
a  little  disparaging  glance  along  the  bleak  road,  with 
its  straggling  willows  and  birches,  —  "  and  there 's 
scarcely  anybody  goes  *  to  Eome.  And  it  like  that ! " 
she  added,  with  another  look  of  loving  reverence  at 
the  old  picture. 

"  You  said  something  about  your  uncle  going,"  sug 
gested  Romulus.  "  Has  n't  he  ever  told  you  about  the 
place,  —  whether  it 's  like  the  picture  ? " 

Narcissa  shook  he  head.  "  I  asked  him  last  time 
he  come  back,"  she  said.  "  I  Ve  asked  him  two  or 
three  times ;  but  all  he  does  is  nod  his  head  and  laugh, 
the  way  he  has.  He  ain't  one  to  talk,  Uncle  Pinker 
ain't.  He  goes  to  Rome  once  every  fall,  when  he  kills 
the  turkeys.  The  biggest  part  of  'em  goes  the  other 
way,  to  Tupham  and  on  beyond,  but  he  allers  takes 
some  portion  to  Rome.  He  says  they  're  great  on 
turkeys  there.  I  should  think  they  would  be, 
should  n't  you  ? " 

This  was  a  long  speech  for  Narcissa,  and  she  re 
lapsed  into  silence  and  the  picture. 

"And  you  live  all  alone  here  with  a  deef  old  man 


16  NARCISSA. 

who  don't  talk  ?  "  said  Eomulus  Patten.  "  Excuse 
me,  Miss  —  well,  you  have  n't  told  me  your  name, 
have  you  ? "  and  he  laughed  a  little. 

"  Narcissa,"  was  the  reply.     "  Narcissa  White." 

"  Thank  you !  "  said  the  well-mannered  Eomulus. 
"  You  live  all  alone  with  him,  and  don't  see  no  com 
pany  ?  It 's  lonesome  for  you,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"I  —  don't  —  know,"  Narcissa  answered  thought 
fully.  "  I  never  thought  much  about  it 's  bein'  lone 
some.  I  have  the  turkeys,  and  they  're  a  good  deal  of 
company  :  and  I  —  I  think  about  things."  A  faint 
color  stole  into  her  clear  white  cheek,  as  she  remem 
bered  the  velvet  gown.  She  supposed  a  man  would 
consider  such  thoughts  "  triflin'." 

"  Don't  you  see  anything  of  the  neighbors  ? "  the 
young  man  persisted.  "  There  's  a  young  lady  down 
at  the  next  house,  half  a  mile  below  here,  —  wide 
awake  looking  girl,  with  yeller  hair  and  red  cheeks, 
looks  some  like  a  geranium  ;  don't  you  know  her  ? '" 

"  That 's  Delilah  Parshley  !  "  said  Narcissa.  "  She 's 
real  handsome,  don't  you  think  so  ?  No,  I  don't  see 
her,  only  to  meetin'  sometimes.  I  guess  she  don't 
care  to  go  much  with  folks  up  this  way.  Her  friends 
is  mostly  the  other  way,  on  the  Tupham  road.  Their 
house  sets  on  the  corner,  you  know." 

Narcissa  did  not  know  —  how  should  she  ?  —  that 
Delilah  Parshley  and  the  other  girls  of  her  sort  con 
sidered  her  "  a  little  wanting,"  because  she  was  silent, 


NARCISSA.  ,  17 

and  never  seemed  interested  in  the  doings  of  the 
neighbors,  or  of  such  stray  travellers  as  came  along 
the  road  to  Rome.  She  felt  kindly  toward  the  Parsh- 
leys,  as  toward  all  the  "  meetin'  folks  ; "  but  she  rarely 
held  speech  with  them,  and  was  "  gettin'  as  dumb  as 
the  old  man  was  deef,"  the  neighbors  were  beginning 
to  say. 

"  But  have  n't  you  got  any  folks  of  your  own  ?  "  this 
persistent  young  man  went  on.  "I  —  I  hope  I  'm 
not  too  forth-puttin',  Miss  White,  but  I  'd  like  to  know." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  're  real  kind  to  ask ! "  replied  Nar- 
cissa,  who  was  not  used  to  having  any  one  care  to 
ask  her  questions. 

"  Yes,  I  Ve  got  some  folks.  Father  's  livin',  but  he 's 
married  again,  and  there 's  more  children,  and  he  was 
glad  to  have  me  find  a  chance ;  and  it  was  so  that  I 
was  glad,  too,"  she  added,  with  no  resentment  in  her 
tone,  but  a  touch  of  sadness,  which  made  the  ready 
color  come  into  those  tell-tale  cheeks  of  Romulus 
Patten. 

"  It  ain't  right,"  he  said  hotly.  "  I  '11  be  switched 
if  it 's  right.  Ain't  there  a  better  chance  you  could 
get,  somewheres  round  here,  if  you  don't  feel  to  go 
fur  away  ?  If  you  did  feel  to  make  a  change, 
there  's  lots  of  chances  down  our  way.  I  'd  be  real 
pleased  to  be  of  assistance,  if  there  was  any  ways  I 
could ;  I  would,  now,  Miss  White." 

Narcissa  looked  a  little  alarmed. 


18  NARCISSA. 

"  You  're  real  good,"  she  said.  "  But  I  ain't  thinkin' 
of  any  change.  Uncle  Pinker  means  well  by  me,  and 
the  work  ain't  too  hard,  'cept  come  hayin'  time,  and 
along  through  the  spring,  sometimes,  when  I  have  to 
help  in  the  gardin.  [  'm  sure  I  'm  obliged  to  you  !  " 
she  added  gratefully,  with  a  shy,  sweet  look  in  her 
eyes  that  made  Eomulus  feel  as  if  the  day  had  grown 
suddenly  warm  again. 

"Well !"  he  said,  with  an  effort,  "  I  reely  must  be 
going,  I  suppose.  I  've  had  a  good  rest,  and  I  must  be 
getting  on." 

But  Narcissa  was  not  ready  to  have  him  go  now. 
Her  heart  had  been  stirred  by  the  unwonted  kindness, 
the  interest  which  this  handsome  stranger  with  the 
kind  eyes  had  shown  in  her,  Narcissa  White,  who  was 
of  no  account  to  any  one  in  the  world.  Her  heart  was 
stirred,  and  now  she  must  show  her  gratitude  in  such 
simple  wise  as  she  could.  She  made  him  sit  down  at 
the  table,  and  brought  him  doughnuts  and  milk,  and 
the  prettiest  apples  she  could  find  in  the  cellar.  In 
fear  and  trembling  she  took  from  the  cupboard  a 
tumbler  of  apple  jelly,  wondering  as  she  did  so  what 
Uncle  Pinker  would  say,  and  whether  he  would  call  it 
stealing.  She  had  made  the  sweetmeat  herself,  and 
had  earned  the  money  to  buy  a  half-dozen  tumblers, 
by  braiding  rugs  for  Mrs.  Parshley.  She  had  picked 
the  apples,  too.  Altogether,  she  thought  she  had  a 
right  to  offer  the  jelly  to  the  kind  stranger. 


NARCISSA.  19 

He  was  delighted  with  his  little  feast,  and  pro 
nounced  the  jelly  the  best  he  had  ever  tasted.  She 
made  it  herself  ?  he  wanted  to  know  !  girls  were  smart 
on  the  road  to  Borne,  he  guessed.  He  drank  her  health 
from  the  brown  mug,  and  again  she  apologized  for  not 
having  a  glass  to  give  him.  "  There  is  good  glasses," 
she  said  with  a  blush,  "  but  Uncle  Pinker  keeps  'em 
locked  up.  I  broke  one  when  I  first  come  here,  two 
years  ago,  and  he 's  never  let  me  touch  one  sence." 

Eomulus  Patten  muttered  something  in  confidence 
to  the  brown  mug,  but  Narcissa  did  not  hear  it.  She 
was  too  happy  to  think  that  other  people  might  con 
sider  Uncle  Pinker  a  mean  old  curmudgeon.  She  felt 
a  warmth  about  the  heart,  wholly  strange  to  her 
starved  and  barren  life.  It  had  been  dear  and  precious 
to  dream,  oh,  yes !  but  here  was  reality.  Here  was 
some  one  like  the  people  she  dreamed  about,  only  real 
flesh  and  blood,  instead  of  shadows.  He  cared,  this 
wonderful  person,  really  cared,  to  be  kind  to  her,  to 
say  pleasant  words,  and  smile,  and  look  at  her  with 
his  bright,  gentle  eyes.  And  he  was  going  to  Kome ! 
that  was  almost  the  best  part  of  all,  for  now  she  could 
fancy  him  there,  and  would  have  some  one  to  speak  to, 
when  she  made  her  shadowy  journeys  to  the  Dream 
City. 

She  was  hardly  sorry  when,  the  simple  feast  over, 
her  new  friend  rose  to  go.  It  could  not  last  forever, 
and  Uncle  Pinker  would  be  waking  up  soon,  and  was 


20  NARCISSA. 

apt  to  be  "  a  little  set,"  as  she  charitably  expressed  it, 
when  he  first  woke.  She  made  apologies  for  not  hav 
ing  roused  the  old  man,  and  was  sure  he  would  have 

O 

been  "  real  pleased  "  to  see  Mr.  Patten,  if  it  had  been 
any  other  time  of  the  day.  She  was  a  little  startled 
when  Romulus  held  out  his  hand  at  parting.  She  had 
an  idea  that  people  only  shook  hands  at  funerals  ;  but 
she  laid  her  little  brown  palm  in  the  warm,  strong  one 
held  out  to  her,  and  felt  a  cordial  pressure  that  brought 
the  tears  to  her  eyes,  —  the  sweet,  forlorn  gray  eyes 
that  never  guessed  at  their  own  sweetness  or  sadness ! 
Romulus  Patten  looked  long  into  them  before  he  let 
the  little  ban  I  go. 

"  I  sha'  n't  forget  you,  Miss  White,"  he  cried.  "  You 
may  be  sure  of  that ;  and  I  hope  you  won't  forget  me, 
either,  for  a  spell.  I  may  stop  on  my  way  back,  if  I 
don't  have  to  go  round  another  way  when  I  leave 
Rome.  I  '11  try  my  best  to  fix  it  so  as  I  can  come  back 
this  way,  and  then  —  then  perhaps  you  '11  let  me  call 
you  Narcissa.  Good-by  —  Narcissa  !  " 

"  Good-by  ! "  echoed  Narcissa ;  and  then  she  stood 
on  the  doorstep  and  watched  him,  her  new  friend,  the 
first  friend  she  had  ever  had,  as  looking  back  often, 
and  waving  his  hand  once  and  twice  in  sign  of  fare 
well,  he  passed  along  down  the  road  to  Rome. 


$art    ft 

WAKING. 

OOD  mornin',  sir ;  can  I  sell  you  anything  this 
mornin'  ? " 

It  was  a  strong,  clear  voice  that  broke  rudely  in 
upon  Uncle  Pinker's  morning  meditations  as  he  sat  in 
the  doorway  (the  same  setting  that  had  framed  Nar- 
cissa  yesterday,  but  how  different  a  picture !),  smoking 
his  short  black  pipe. 

"  Can  I  sell  you  anything  ?  "  repeated  the  voice,  with 
an  imperious  intonation.  Uncle  Pinker  looked  up. 
The  sound  was  a  mere  murmur  in  his  ears ;  but  when 
he  saw  the  figure  before  him,  he  recognized  it  for  one 
he  had  sometimes  seen  on  the  road,  and  knew  instinct 
ively  what  was  wanted.  "  Ga-a-ah  !  "  said  Uncle  Pinker. 

This  remark  was  a  favorite  one  of  the  old  gentle 
man's,  and  though  no  one  knew  its  precise  derivation, 
there  was  no  doubt  of  its  being  the  quintessence  of 
scornful  refusal.  He  used  it  constantly,  but  it  never 
had  such  bitter  force  as  when  he  was  asked  to  spend 
money.  "  Ga-a-ah  ! "  said  Uncle  Pinker  again. 

"  What  might  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  asked  the  new 
comer,  with  some  asperity.  "  That  ain  't  no  form  of 


22  NARCISSA. 

salutation  ever  I  heard  yet.  Have  n't  you  a  civil 
tongue  to  use,  old  gentleman  ?  You  're  ancient  enough 
to  have  learned  manners,  if  you  '11  excuse  me  sayin'  so." 

The  old  man  snarled  again.  "  I  'm  stone  deef  ! "  he 
said.  "  I  don't  hear  nothin'  you  say,  nor  yet  I  don't 
want  to  hear.  You  need  n't  waste  no  time,  fur  as  I  'm 
concerned." 

"  Stone  deef,  be  you  ? "  returned  the  pedlar.  "  Well, 
that  has  its  compensations,  too.  You  wrould  n't  buy 
anything  if  you  had  the  hearin'  of  ten,  and  now  I  can 
have  the  pleasure  of  tellin'  you  what  I  think  of  you. 
You  skinny,  starved  old  weasel,  you  're  about  the  wick- 
edest-lookin'  piece  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  Real  old  screw, 
you  are,  if  ever  I  saw  one.  Pity  your  folks,  if  you  've 
got  any  ;  more  likely  you  've  starved  'em  all  off,  though, 
and  are  skeered  of  dyin'  yourself,  fear  of  havin'  another 
funeral  to  pay  for.  The  Lord  leaves  folks  like  you  for 
a  warnin'  to  others,  understand  ?  —  set  up,  kind  of,  to 
show  how  ugly  a  critter  can  be  when  he  tries.  Oh, 
you  need  n't  snarl  at  me.  I  'm  enjoyin'  myself  real 
well,  I  tell  you.  There 's  other  ways  to  have  a  good 
time  besides  sellin',  if  it  is  my  trade.  Guess  I  '11  set 
down  a  spell,  uncle,  sence  you  are  so  pressin'." 

Uncle  Pinker  was  almost  foaming  with  rage  by  this 
time.  He  could  hear  no  distinct  words,  but  the  insult 
ing  nature  of  the  stranger's  speech  was  evident  from 
look  and  gesture.  He  was  just  wondering  whether  his 
strength  would  suffice  to  throw  himself  on  the  in- 


NARCISSA.  23 

trader,  when  a  new  figure  appeared  on  the  scene,  —  Nar- 
cissa,  who  had  been  busy  in  the  back  kitchen,  and  catch 
ing  some  high  note  of  the  stranger's  scornful  speech, 
now  came  hurrying  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

She  found  Uncle  Pinker  quivering  in  his  chair,  his 
lean,  veined  hands  clutching  the  arms,  his  little  red 
eyes  starting  from  his  head  with  impotent  fury ;  and 
sitting  on  the  doorstep,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  a 
smile  of  calm  amusement,  was  the  strangest  figure 
Narcissa  had  ever  seen. 

A  person  of  middle  age,  with  strongly  marked  fea 
tures,  and  a  countenance  of  keen  intelligence,  but 
dressed  in  a  singular  manner.  A  suit  of  brown  cloth, 
rather  worn,  but  well-brushed  and  neat ;  loose  trousers, 
and  an  odd,  long-skirted  coat,  reaching  to  the  knees, 
both  coat  and  trousers  trimmed  with  rows  of  narrow 
black-  velvet  ribbon.  The  person's  hair  was  cropped 
short ;  the  person's  head  was  surmounted  by  a  curious 
structure,  half  cap,  half  helmet,  like  that  worn  by  Miss 
Deborah  in  "  Cranf ord, "  only  of  far  humbler  materials. 
Beside  the  person,  on  the  doorstep,  lay  a  bag,  of  the 
kind  affected  by  pedlars,  lank  and  shiny,  and  particu 
larly  unattractive  in  appearance. 

Such  was  the  individual  at  whom  Narcissa  White 
was  now  staring  with  eyes  very  wide  open,  her  stare 
being  returned  by  a  quizzical  gaze,  half  smiling,  and 
wholly  shrewd  and  observant. 

"  Mornin',  young  lady,"  said  the  strong,  clear  voice. 


24  NARCISSA. 

"  Wonderin'  what  I  be,  are  ye  ?  fish  or  flesh,  or  red 
herrin',  or  what,  hey  ?  Well,  I  '11  put  you  out  of  your 
misery.  I  'm  a  woman,  that 's  what  I  am ;  the  folks 
calls  me  Bloomer  Joe.  Now,  then,  do  you  want  to 
buy  anything  of  me  ? " 

Here  her  tone  changed,  and  her  voice  rose  and  fell 
in  a  kind  of  chant,  dwelling  with  dramatic  emphasis 
on  a  telling  phrase  here  and  there. 

"  Buy  any  lace,  threads,  or  needles,  pins  —  or  —  es 
sences  ?  Here  's  a  looking-glass  to  see  your  face  in  — 
prettiest  face  I  've  seen  along  the  road  !  (I  tell  that  to 
every  girl  I  see,  and  most  of  'em  believe  it ;  but  you 
ain't  that  kind,  so  you  shall  have  the  joke  instead.) 
Eeal  celluloid  ivory  combs,  fit  for  the  President's  wife, 
sure  enough.  Gold  beads,  stockin'-supporters,  teeth- 
brushes,  —  and  —  stickin'-plaster." 

Here  she  dropped  back  into  a  conversational  tone, 
opening  her  bag  as  she  did  so,  and  drawing  forth  some 
of  its  treasures. 

"  Just  look  at  this  lace,  young  lady  !  strong  enough 
to  hang  yourself  with,  if  you  was  feelin'  that  way,  or 
to  hang  the  old  gentleman  here,  if  you  was  feelin' 
another.  I  know  which  way  I  'd  feel,  quick  enough. 
Not  your  father,  is  he  ? "  she  added,  seeing  a  look  of 
distress  in  Narcissa's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Narcissa,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 
"  But  —  he  's  my  uncle,  —  at  least,  my  father's  uncle  ; 
and  I  —  guess  you  'd  better  not  talk  so,  please." 


NARCISSA.  25 

"  All  right,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I  won't,  not  if  it  is 
any  trouble  to  you.  It  would  be  meat  and  potatoes 
and  apple-pie  for  me,  if  he  was  my  uncle,  to  hear  him 
get  his  rights  for  once  in  a  way ;  but  I  see  you  're  one 
of  the  soft-hearted  ones.  Want  any  salve  ?  Here 's  a 
kind  that  will  cure  corns,  bunions,  rheumatism,  croup, 
sore-throat,  backache,  horse-ail,  and  colic;  cure  most 
anything  except  a  broken  heart,  and  won't  do  a  mite 
of  harm  to  that.  But  you  don't  need  any  salve,  and 
the  old  gentleman,  he  's  past  it.  Well,  then,  here  's 
ribbons,  all  colors  of  the  rainbow,  —  red,  yeller,  blue, 
see  ?  handsome  they  are,  and  cheap  as  good  counsel. 
Aha !  you  'd  like  to  see  them,  hey  ? " 

Narcissa  had  indeed  changed  color  at  sight  of  the 
bright  ribbons,  and  she  now  gave  an  anxious  glance  at 
Uncle  Pinker,  who  was  still  fuming  and  snorting  in 
his  chair. 

"  You,  Narcissy  White,  send  this  critter  away,  can't 
ye  ? "  he  snarled  ;  "  or  else  go  into  the  house  yourself, 
and  go  to  work,  not  stand  foolin'  here,  with  the  work 
all  on  the  floor.  Go  'long,  d'  ye  hear  ?  This  woman, 
or  feller,  or  whatever  she  calls  herself,  can  talk  till 
she  's  hoarse ;  she  won't  hurt  me,  nor  she  won't  get 
nothin'  out  of  me." 

"  Could  I  get  a  drink  of  water,  do  you  s'pose  ? " 
the  pedlar  asked  quietly,  paying  no  attention  to  the 
angry  old  man.  "  Need  n't  trouble  to  bring  it  out ; 
I  '11  go  right  into  the  house  with  you,  if  you  Ve  no 
objections." 


26  NARCISSA. 

She  followed  Narcissa  into  the  house  before  the 
latter  could  make  any  remonstrance,  and  shut  the 
door  after  her. 

"  He  don't  reelly  disturb  me,"  she  said,  "  not  a  mite ; 
but  we  can  trade  better  in  here.  Let  me  try  some  of 
the  ribbons  on  your  hair.  I  don't  often  see  such  hair 
as  this  on  my  tramps,  and  that 's  no  compliment,  but 
the  plain  truth." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Narcissa,  in  distress.  "  You  're  real  kind, 
but  please  don't.  I  have  n't  got  any  money  to  buy 
things  with,  and  I  could  n't  take  your  time  for  noth 
ing.  They  are  handsome,  ain't  they  ?  Oh,  that  yellow 
is  just  elegant,  is  n't  it  ?  It 's  like  the  buttons  ;  I  mean 
like  the  tansy  blossoms.  I  thank  you  for  showin'  them 
to  me,  I  'm  sure,  but  it  ain't  any  use  for  you  to." 

"  Don't  he  pay  you  for  workin'  here  ? "  asked  the 
pedlar,  with  a  sharp  glance. 

"  Yes,  he  does  pay  me,"  Narcissa  answered,  —  "a 
dollar  and  a  half  a  week.  But  —  but  I  don't  get  it 
very  reg'lar,  sometimes,  and  I  'm  saving  up  to  buy  me 
a  dress.  I  need  one  bad,  to  wear  to  meetin'." 

The  pedlar  frowned.  It  was  against  her  principles 
to  leave  any  house  where  she  knew  there  was  money, 
without  selling  at  least  a  box  of  salve ;  but  this 
seemed  a  hard  case. 

"  A  dollar  and  a  half  a  week  !  "  she  muttered  scorn 
fully.  "  The  old  caraway  seed  !  he  'd  better  go  and 
live  in  Rome,  and  be  done  with  it.  He  '11  find  plenty 
of  company  there." 


NARC1SSA.  27 

Narcissa  looked  up  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  Rome  is  the  skinniest  place  on  this  round 
earth,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  and  I  think  't  would  suit  your 
uncle  down  to  the  ground." 

Still  the  girl  gazed.  "I  guess  you're  mistaken," 
she  said  quietly.  "  I  guess  you  never  was  there,  was 
you?" 

"  Never  till  yesterday,"  replied  the  woman,  "  and 
never  want  to  be  there  again.  You  see,  this  is  n't  my 
own  country  at  all,  as  you  may  say.  I  belong  in 
another  part  of  the  State,  and  most  generally  keep  to 
my  own  beat,  havin'  my  regular  customers,  under 
stand  ?  and  goin'  round  amongst  'em.  But  oncet  in  a 
while  the  fancy  takes  me  to  roam  a  little,  and  see  other 
parts  ;  and  so  I  come  round  through  Damascus  and 
Solon,  and  passed  through  Eome  yesterday." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Narcissa,  breathlessly.  "  You  did  ? 
do  tell  me  !  and  was  n't  it  elegant  ?  I  don't  see  how 
you  could  come  away.  Did  you  walk  about,  and  see 
all  them  handsome  buildings  ?  and  did  you  see  the 
folks  ? " 

The  pedlar  gazed  at  her  in  wonder.  The  girl's  eyes 
were  like  stars,  her  whole  face  alight  with  enthusiasm. 
What  did  it  mean  ? 

"  Handsome  buildin's  ? "  she  repeated.  "  In  Rome  ? 
I  '11  tell  you  what  I  saw,  child,  and  then  you  '11  know. 
I  saw  the  forlornest  place  on  this  earth,  I  don't  care 


28  XARCISSA. 

where  the  next  may  be.  I  saw  rocks  and  turkeys,  and 
turkeys  and  rocks.  The  street  (if  you  can  call  it  a 
street ;  't  would  be  called  a  hog-wallow,  down  where  I 
come  from)  is  solid  rock  where  it  ain't  mud,  and  solid 
mud  where  it  ain't  rock.  There  's  a  house  here  and  a 
house  there,  and  they  all  look  as  if  they  was  tryin'  to 
get  away  from  each  other,  but  did  n't  darse  to  move 
for  fear  of  fallin'  down. 

"  The  folks  I  saw  were  as  lean  as  their  own  turkeys, 
and  I  can't  say  no  further  than  that.  I  tried  to  sell 
'em  some  of  my  salve ;  told  'em  't  would  heal  the  skin 
where  't  was  broke  with  the  bones  comin'  through,  but 
they  was  past  jokin'  with. 

"  I  tell  you,  child,  Rome  is  the . —  Why,  what 's  the 
matter  ? "  The  good  woman  stopped  suddenly,  for 
Narcissa  was  trembling  all  over,  and  her  face  shone 
white  in  the  dim,  half-lighted  room. 

"I  —  I  don't  understand  you  !  "  .she  cried  wildly. 
"'  There  's  some  mistake  ;  you  went  to  the  wrong  place, 
and  never  saw  Rome  at  all.  Look  here ! "  and  she 
led  the  way  swiftly  across  the  hall,  into  the  other 
room,  the  room  into  which  she  had  taken  Romulus 
Patten  the  day  before.  She  almost  ran  up  to  the 
picture,  and  motioned  the  pedlar,  with  an  imperious 
gesture,  strange  in  so  gentle  a  creature,  to  look  at  it. 
"  That  is  Rome  !  "  cried  Xarcissa.  "  You  went  to  the 
wrong  place,  I  tell  you.  This  —  this  is  Rome  ! " 

The  woman  drew  out  a  pair  of  spectacles,  and  fitted 


NARCISSA.  29 

them  on  her  nose  with  exasperating  deliberation.  She 
took  a  long  look  at  the  picture,  and  then  turned  to  the 
trembling  girl,  with  a  kind  light  of  pity  in  her  eyes 
struggling  with  amusement. 

"  You  poor  —  deluded  —  child  ! "  she  said  at  length. 
"  Who  ever  told  you  that  was  Borne,  I  should  like  to 
know  ? " 

"  But  it  says  so  !  "  cried  Narcissa.  "  Can't  you 
read  ?  '  HOME.'  There  it  is,  in  plain  letters ;  and  I  — 
don't  —  "  she  wanted  to  say  "  I  don't  believe  you  ! " 
but  the  blue  eyes  that  met  hers  steadily  showed 
nothing  but  truth  and  kindness. 

"  So  it  is  Eome,  dear  ! "  said  the  pedlar,  speaking  now 
very  gently.  "  But  it 's  ancient  Eome,  over  in  Europe ; 
Italy,  they  call  the  country.  Where  the  ancient 
Komans  lived,  don't  you  know  ?  Julius  Caesar,  and  all 
those  fellers  who  cut  up  such  didoes,  hundreds  of 
years  ago  ?  Don't  tell  me  you  never  went  to  school,  nor 
learned  any  history." 

"I  —  I  went  for  a  spell ! "  Narcissa  faltered.  "  I 
had  to  leave  when  I  was  fourteen,  because  I  was 
wanted  to  home,  and  we  hadn't  only  got  to  the 
Battle  of  Lexington  in  history.  I  did  hope  to  learn 
about  the  Revolution,  to  home,  but  father's  wife 
did  n't  think  much  of  readin',  and  she  burned  up  the 
book." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  the  good-natured 
pedlar  began  fumbling  in  her  bag. 


30  NARCISSA. 

"It's  a  livin'  shame!"  she  cried  indignantly. 
"  Here  —  no,  it  ain't,  neither.  Well !  I  did  think, 
much  as  could  be,  that  I  had  two  or  three  little  books 
here,  and  I  should  have  been  pleased  to  give  you  one, 
dear,  just  for  keeps,  you  know.  But  they  don't  seem 
to  be  here.  Well,  never  mind !  I  was  goin'  to  ask  if 
you  would  n't  like  this  piece  of  yeller  ribbon  you 
seemed  to  take  to.  It 's  a  real  good  piece,  and  I  should 
be  pleased  —  I  declare,  child,  I  do  feel  bad  to  have 
spoiled  your  pretty  notion  of  Eome.  I  s'pose  you 
thought  likely  you  'd  go  there  some  day,  hey  ?  well, 
well !  sit  down,  and  let  me  put  this  ribbon  on  your 
hair.  You  no  need  to  be  scairt  of  me.  I  act  kind  o' 
wild  sometimes,  like  I  did  with  your  uncle,  but  it 's  four 
parts  fun.  I  'm  well  known  up  our  way,  and  anybody  '11 
tell  you  I  come  of  good  stock,  if  I  am  crazy  enough  to 
wear  sensible  clothes,  that  don't  hender  me  walkin' 
nor  settin'.  Mis'  Transom,  my  name  is.  And  he 
called  you  Narcissy,  did  n't  he  ?  Why,  I  had  a  cousin 
once,  name  of  Narcissy;  it's  not  a  common  name 
either,  and  I  allers  thought  it  was  real  pretty.  Set 
down  here,  dear,  and  let's  talk  a  spell." 

Thus  the  kind  woman  rattled  on,  watching  the 
girl  keenly  the  while.  She  was  making  time  for 
her,  giving  her  a  chance  to  recover  from  what  was 
evidently  a  heavy  blow. 

But  Narcissa  scarcely  heard  her.  She  was  dazed ; 
her  dream  was  shattered,  her  glorious  city  laid  in 


NARCISSA.  31 

ruins,  the  beauty  and  romance  of  her  whole  life 
dashed  away,  as  a  rude  touch  dashes  the  dew  from 
the  morning  grass. 

As  she  sat,  trying  to  realize  it,  trying  to  think  that 
it  really  was  not  so  much,  that  there  would  be  other 
pleasant  things,  perhaps,  to  fill  the  barren  working 
days,  and  gild  the  grayness  of  the  long  lonely  Sab 
baths,  —  as  she  sat  thus,  a  new  thought  flashed  into 
her  mind,  piercing  like  the  thrust  of  a  sword. 

Her  friend,  Eomulus  Patten!  She  had  sent  him  off 
on  a  false  scent,  had  lied  to  him  about  the  place,  the 
city  —  she  could  hardly  bear  even  to  think  of  its  dis 
honored  name  now.  He  had  gone  there,  thinking  to 
find  what  she  had  told  him  about,  —  the  stately  houses, 
the  arches,  the  soft  sunshine  gilding  all.  What  would 
he  think  of  her  when  he  found  it  was  all  a  cheat,  a 
lie  ?  He  had  been  kind  to  her,  had  seemed  to  care 
about  her  as  nobody  had  ever  done  in  her  forlorn 
young  life ;  and  this  was  how  she  had  repaid  him  ! 

She  started  up,  shrinking  as  if  from  some  cruel 
sting.  "  I  must  go  and  tell  him  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  lied 
to  him,  though  I  did  n't  know  it  was  a  lie.  I  must  go 
and  find  him,  and  tell  him  I  did  n't  mean  to." 

"  Tell  who  ? "  cried  the  pedlar,  catching  her  by  the 
arm.  "  What  is  it  troubles  you  so,  Narcissy  ?  Who 
did  you  lie  to,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  Don't  believe 
she  could  tell  a  decent  lie  if  't  was  to  save  her  own 
soul,"  she  added  to  herself. 


32  NARCISSA. 

But  Narcissa  did  not  heed  her. 

She  had  taken  down  her  sunbonnet  from  a  nail, 
and  was  tying  it  under  her  chin  with  trembling 
fingers,  with  a  feverish  haste  that  took  no  note  of  any 
thing. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Transom,  now 
beginning  to  be  frightened  at  the  girl's  distracted 
looks.  "  You  're  never  going  out  of  the  house  feeling 
like  this  ?  You  11  have  a  fit  of  sickness,  sure  as  you  're 
alive,  and  then  where  '11  you  be  ?  and  't  is  all  foolish 
ness,  too,  I  '11  be  bound.  I  can't  understand  a  word 
you  say.  And  there  's  a  storm  coming  up,  too.  I  see 
it  as  I  was  coming  along,  and  was  reckoning  on  finding 
shelter  here  when  I  fust  stopped  to  speak  to  the  old 
gentleman.  There,  hear  the  thunder  this  very  min 
ute  !  Narcissy  !  Why,  good  land  of  deliverance,  she 's 
gone ! " 

The  storm  came  on  very  suddenly,  —  first,  a  low 
bank  of  cloud  heaving  in  sight  on  the  western  horizon, 
long  and  misshapen,  like  the  back  of  a  kraken ;  then 
the  whole  monster  revealed,  rising  across  the  sky,  toss 
ing  monstrous  arms  about,  showing  ugly  tints  of  yellow, 
ugly  depths  of  purple  and  black. 

There  was  no  lightning  at  first,  only  low  mutterings 
of  thunder,  and  every  now  and  then  a  pale  lifting  of 
the  darkness,  as  if  the  monster  were  opening  his  cav 
ernous  jaws,  showing  glimpses  of  dim  horror  within. 


NARCISSA.  33 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  with  no  note  of  warning,  the  whole 
sky  sprang  into  flame,  the  whole  air  was  a  roar  and  a 
bellow,  deafening  the  ears,  stunning  the  senses,  —  and 
the  storm  broke  over  the  road  to  Eome. 

The  rain  struck  aslant,  driving  a  spray  before  it,  as 
of  a  mountain  stream.  In  five  minutes  no  road  was  to 
be  seen,  —  only  a  long  stretch  of  brown  water,  hissing 
and  writhing  under  the  scourge  of  the  rain  and  wind. 
A  horse  came  plodding  carefully  along,  crouching 
together  as  well  as  he  could,  picking  his  way  through 
the  water.  The  two  men  in  the  buggy  behind  him 
were  crouching,  too,  and  trying  to  hide  behind  the 
rubber  boot.  It  was  some  comfort  to  think  that  they 
were  trying  to  keep  dry,  though  both  knew  that  they 
were  already  drenched  to  the  skin. 

"  It 's  lucky  for  me  that  I  met  you,"  said  the  younger 
of  the  two,  shaking  himself,  and  sending  a  shower  of 
spray  in  all  directions. 

"  P'r'aps  't  is  just  as  well,"  replied  the  other  man, 
with  a  chuckle.  "  You  'd  hardly  have  known  yourself 
from  a  muskrat  by  this  time,  if  you  'd  had  to  foot  it 
from  Eome  here.  Been  stoppin'  there  ? " 

"  Stopping  as  long  as  I  cared  to,"  said  the  youth, 
who  was  no  other  than  our  friend  Eomulus  Patten. 
"  I  got  there  last  night,  and  was  good  and  ready  to 
come  away  this  morning.  I  'm  travelling  for  Brown's 
Nurseries,  and  there  don't  seem  to  be  any  call  for  any 
of  our  goods  in  Eome.  Stone-crop's  the  only  plant 
they  raise  much  of,  I  guess." 


34  NARCISSA. 

"  Well,  that 's  so,"  said  the  elder  man.  "  That 's  so, 
every  time.  I  never  knew  but  one  man  that  could 
make  anything  grow  in  Eome,  and  he  carted  all  the 
dirt  three  miles,  over  from  North  Podley,  before  he 
could  make  a  seed  grow.  Yes,  sir,  he  did  so.  Mighty 
poor  country  up  that  way.  Some  say  the  Eome  folks 
don't  see  any  garden-truck  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end,  and  that  if  you  ask  a  Eome  girl  to  cook  you  up  a 
mess  of  string  beans,  she  takes  the  store  beans  and 
runs  'em  on  a  string,  and  boils  'em  that  way ;  but  I 
dono.  I  'm  from  Vi-enny  way  myself." 

"  My  gracious  !  what 's  that  ?  " 

The  whole  world  had  turned  to  livid  white  for  a 
moment,  dazzling  and  blinding  them ;  but  still  they 
had  seen  something  on  the  road,  something  like  a  hu 
man  form,  torn  and  buffeted  by  the  wind  and  the 
furious  rain,  but  staggering  on  towards  them  with 
uncertain  steps. 

"  My  God  !  it 's  a  woman  !  "  cried  Eomulus  Patten. 
"  Stop  your  horse,  and  let  me  get  out.  A  woman,  alone 
in  this  storm  ! " 

He  sprang  to  the  ground,  and  holding  his  arm  before 
his  face  to  keep  off  the  blinding  rain,  made  his  way 
towards  the  forlorn  figure  splashing  through  the  water, 
now  ankle  deep  in  the  road,  stumbling,  often  on  the 
point  of  falling. 

"  Hold  up,  lady  !  *  he  called  out,  in  his  cheery  voice. 
"  There 's  friends  here  !  Hold  up  just  a  minute ! " 


NARCISSA.  35 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  woman  stopped  and 
seemed  to  shudder  and  clasp  her  hands.  "I  never 
meant  it !  "  she  cried  out  wildly.  "  I  can't  see  you,  I  'm 
most  blind,  but  I  know  your  voice.  I  never  meant  to 
lie  to  you  about  Eome.  I  —  thought  —  't  was  all 
true  ;  and  when  I  found  out,  I  —  came  —  to  tell  you. 
I  never  meant  to  send  you  there  on  a  lie." 

"  Narcissa  !  "  cried  Romulus  Patten.  "  Oh,  Lord  ! 
Oh,  you  poor  little  thing !  and  you  thought  I  did  n't 
know  ?  I  'd  ought  to  be  shot,  that 's  what  I  ought  to 
be.  Here,  you  poor  little  thing,  let  me  take  your 
hands  !  They  're  like  wet  ice,  and  you  're  shivering  all 
over.  Oh,  dear  me !  come  with  me,  and  get  right  into 
this  buggy  out  of  the  rain.  Oh,  Lord !  and  I  let  you 
go  on  thinking  I  did  n't  know ! " 

Half  leading,  half  carrying  her,  he  made  his  way  to 
the  buggy,  and  then  fairly  lifted  her  in  his  strong  young 
arms  to  lay  her  on  the  seat ;  but  here  an  obstacle  was 
interposed  in  the  shape  of  another  arm  as  strong  as  his, 
and  a  good  deal  bigger.  "  Easy,  there  !  "  said  the  owner 
of  the  buggy.  "  Seems  to  me  you  're  makin'  yourself 
rather  too  free,  young  feller.  Do  you  think  I  'm  goin' 
to  have  that  gal  brought  in  here,  runnin'  all  the  rivers 
of  Babylon  ?  Who  in  Jerusalem  is  she,  anyway  ? 
Some  of  your  folks  ? " 

Romulus  Patten's  face  was  streaming  with  cold  rain, 
but  he  flushed  as  if  a  flame  had  swept  over  him. 

"  She 's  the  young  lady  I  'm  going  to  marry,"  he  said. 


36  NARCISSA. 

"Will  you  take  her  in,  or  shall  I  carry  her  home 
this  way  ? " 

"  Now  you  're  talking ! "  the  stranger  said,  removing 
his  arm  and  making  way.  "  Why  did  n't  you  speak 
up  before,  sonny  ?  Here,  give  me  a  holt  of  her ! "  He 
lifted  Narcissa  gently  into  the  buggy,  and  drew  her 
close  to  his  side,  laying  her  head  well  up  on  his  shoul 
der  so  that  she  could  breathe  easily.  "  Family  man," 
he  explained.  "  Gals  of  my  own.  Now  you  reach 
under  the  seat  there,  and  bring  out  a  shawl  you'll 
find." 

Romulus  obeyed,  and  half  angry,  half  pleased, 
watched  the  stranger  as  he  deftly  wrapped  the  shawl 
round  the  fainting  girl,  and  put  her  dripping  hair 
tenderly  off  her  face. 

"Allers  take  a  shawl  along,"  he  explained  further. 
"  Wife  enjoys  poor  health,  and  have  to  be  ready  for  a 
change  of  wind.  Comes  in  handy,  don't  it  ?  Now  get 
in,  young  feller,  and  tell  me  where  to  drive  to.  You 
need  n't  look  down  in  the  mouth,  either,  'cause  you 
don't  know  everything  in  creation  yet.  Time  enough 
to  learn,  and  you  're  likely  to  learn  easy,  I  should  say. 

"  And  you  rest  comfortable,  my  dear,"  he  added, 
speaking  to  Narcissa  as  if  she  were  a  small  child. 
"Here's  your  friend  alongside  of  you,  and  you're  just 
as  safe  as  you  would  be  in  the  best  stuffed  chair  in  the 
settin'-room  at  home.  Fetch  your  breath,  like  a  good 
girl,  and  try  to  look  about  you." 


NARCISSA.  37 

But  Narcissa  heard  never  a  word,  for  she  had 
fainted. 

An  hour  later,  Eomulus  Patten  and  Mrs.  Transom 
were  sitting  by  Narcissa's  bedside,  watching  her.  She 
had  fallen  into  a  deep,  childlike  sleep,  and  their  low 
voices  did  not  disturb  her. 

"  The  old  gentleman  was  so  mad  he  was  all  cheesed 
up,"  the  pedlar  was  saying.  "  There !  I  was  fairly 
sorry  for  him,  old  weasel  as  he  is ;  so  I  let  him  go  on 
for  a  spell,  till  he  was  clean  tuckered  out,  and  then  I 
e'en  took  him  up  and  put  him  to  bed,  same  as  if  he 
was  a  child.  Glad  enough  he  was  to  get  there  too,  if 
he  was  mad.  Then  I  took  and  made  him  some 
warm  drink,  and  gave  him  to  understand  I  'd  stay  by 
till  Narcissy  come  back,  and  here  I  be.  And  now, 
young  man,"  she  added,  fixing  her  keen  blue  eyes  on 
Bomulus's  face,  "  I  Ve  got  a  word  to  say  to  you. 
You  let  fall  something  when  you  was  bringin'  this 
child  in  —  I  won't  say  that  I  was  n't  mighty  glad 
to  see  her,  and  you,  too,  —  but  you  let  on  something 
about  keepin'  company  with  her.  Now,  I  want  to  know 
right  here,  what  you  meant,  and  who  you  are,  and  all 
about  it.  Oh,  you  may  look  at  my  pants  much  as 
you  're  a  mind  to.  I  come  of  good  folks,  and  I  dress 
as  seems  fit  to  me,  and  I  don't  care  in  any  way,  shape, 
or  manner  what  folks  say  or  think.  I  Ve  been  snoopin' 
round  some,  since  I  put  that  old  man  to  bed,  and  I 
found  the  family  Bible ;  and  this  child  is  the  lawful 


38  NARCISSA. 

daughter  of  my  cousin,  Narcissy  Merrill,  that  I  have  n't 
heard  of  this  twenty  years.  Bein'  so,  I  'm  goin'  to 
stand  by  her,  as  is  right  and  proper ;  so,  now  I  '11  hear 
what  you  've  got  to  say.  I  've  as  good  a  right  to  do  for 
her  as  that  old  skimp-jack  in  there,  if  he  is  her  father's 
uncle." 

Eomulus  Patten  spoke  out  frankly.  He  had  "  taken 
to  "  Narcissa  from  the  first  moment  he  saw  her.  When 
was  that  ?  Well,  it  was  n't  long  ago,  it  was  true.  It 
was  only  yesterday  ;  but  he  was  n't  one  to  change, 
and  he  had  never  seen  a  girl  yet  that  he  would  look 
twice  at.  And  when  she  came,  in  all  that  awful  storm, 
just  to  tell  him.  —  here  the  young  man  choked  a  little, 
and  the  woman  liked  him  the  better  for  it,  —  he  made 
up  his  mind  then,  he  went  on,  all  in  a  minute,  that  she 
should  be  his  wife ;  and  she  should,  if  so  be  she  was 
willing.  He  would  go  back  to  the  place  and  see  if  he 
could  get  a  job  in  the  garden ;  he  might  have  had  one 
now,  but  he  was  some  tired  and  had  thought  it  would 
rest  him  to  travel  a  spell.  He  would  quit  travelling 
now,  and  had  little  doubt  that  he  could  have  a  good 
place. 

He  knew  of  a  pleasant  rent  —  in  that  part  of  the 
country  a  hired  tenement  is  known  as  a  "  rent " —  with 
four  rooms,  that  belonged  to  a  friend  of  his,  and  he 
could  get  that,  he  guessed.  In  short,  the  sooner  Nar- 
cissa  got  away  from  Uncle  Pinker  the  better,  in  his 
opinion,  and  he  was  ready  to  take  her,  the  first  day  she 


NARCISSA.  39 

would  go.  That  was  all  he  had  to  say  for  himself ;  but 
he  presumed  Mr.  Brown  would  give  him  a  character  if 
he  was  asked.  He  had  worked  for  Browns  three  years, 
and  had  no  reason  to  think  they  weren't  satisfied 
with  him. 

When  Komulus  had  finished  his  little  speech,  which 
left  him  flushed  and  tremulous,  yet  with  a  brave  Light 
in  his  eyes,  and  a  tender  look  as  he  glanced  towards  his 
love  where  she  lay  sleeping  quietly,  Mrs.  Transom 
gazed  at  him  for  a  while  in  silence ;  then  she  held  out 
her  hand  and  grasped  his  heartily. 

"  I  guess  you  '11  do,"  she  said.  "  I  guess  you  're  the 
right  sort.  Now,  I  '11  tell  you  what.  You  go  along 
and  get  your  place,  and  see  about  your  rent.  Don't 
engage  it,  but  get  the  refusal  of  it,  if  it  belongs  to  a 
friend,  as  you  say.  Then  you  come  back  here  and  find 
your  girl  all  well  and  peart  again,  and  you  say  your 
say,  and  let  her  say  hers.  You  don't  want  to  take 
advantage  of  her  being  sick  and  weakly  now  —  now, 
you  no  need  to  flare  up !  I  say  you  don't  want  to,  and 
I  mean  it.  You  '11  need  a  box  of  my  salve,  if  you  're 
so  thin-skinned  as  all  that  comes  to. 

"  You  go  along,  I  say,  and  when  you  come  back, 
come  over  to  my  place,  Tupham  Corner,  third  house 
from  the  cross-road,  white  house  with  a  yeller  door. 
Everybody  knows  Mis'  Transom's  house.  You  '11  find 
your  gal  there,  and  you  '11  marry  her  there,  with  her 
mother's  cousin  to  stand  up  with  her.  There,  don't 


40  NARCISSA. 

be  scairt !  Pity  some  gals  have  n't  got  the  trick  of 
blushin'  as  you  have,  young  man.  I  've  got  as  good  a 
black  silk  as  any  in  Tupharn  or  Cyrus,  and  nobody 's 
goin'  to  say  '  Bloomer  Joe '  round  where  my  own  folks 
live,  you  'd  better  believe.  What  say  ?  Like  my  idee, 
or  have  you  got  a  better  one  yourself  ? " 

"  You  're  real  good  ! "  Eomulus  cried.  "  Poor  little 
Narcissa!  It  does  seem  as  if  she  had  found  all  her 
friends  at  once,  and  she  never  having  any  in  her  life 
before,  as  you  may  say.  I  tell  you,  Mis'  Transom,  I  '11 
treat  her  as  well  as  I  know  how.  If  she  was  a  queen, 
she  should  n't  have  any  more  care  than  what  I  '11  give 
her.  I  —  I  think  a  sight  of  her  !  "  he  added  simply. 
"  Saems  as  if  she  always  belonged  to  me,  somehow." 

"  That 's  right ! "  said  Mrs.  Transom,  who  was  as 
romantic  as  any  lady  in  silk  and  satin.  "  That 's  right, 
young  man.  We  '11  get  her  away  from  this  old  rat- 
hole,  and  then  I  guess  it  '11  be  a  good  while  before 
either  you  or  I  travels  this  way  again,  hey  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  have  anything  to  say  against  the 
country,"  said  Eomulus  Patten,  with  another  loving 
look  at  the  sleeper.  "  It  is  n't  exactly  the  place  to  sell 
tree*,  but  yet  there 's  good  things  to  be  found  on  this 
road,  —  the  road  to  Rome." 


IN    VERONA. 


IN    VERONA. 


FIEST  of  all,  let  me  correct  the  mistaken  impres 
sion  that  my  title  cannot  fail  to  make  upon  the 
patient  reader.  On  reading  the  words,  "  In  Verona," 
his  mind  instantly  conjures  up  a  vision  of  white 
palaces ;  of  narrow  streets  across  which  the  tall  houses 
nod  at  each  other,  hinting  at  the  mysteries  they  dare 
not  reveal ;  of  ancient  fountains,  embowered  in  myrtle 
and  laurel ;  finally,  of  Juliet's  tomb,  and  a  thousand 
memories  of  the  immortal  lovers. 

All  this  is  natural,  but  it  will  not  do.  Here  in 
Verona  are  no  fountains,  but  half  a  dozen  old  well- 
sweeps,  and  all  the  rest  cucumber-wood  pumps;  no 
palaces,  but  neat  white  houses  with  green  blinds,  and 
flowers  in  their  front-yards ;  no  laurel,  but  good  honest 
sunflowers  instead ;  finally,  no  tomb  of  Juliet,  for  our 
Juliet  did  not  die ;  briefly,  and  to  have  done  with  mys 
tery,  our  Verona  is  in  the  State  of  Maine. 

I  have  often  wondered  what  manner  of  men  they 
were,  who  named  the  towns  in  the  good  old  State. 
Lyceum  teachers  for  the  most  part,  one  would  think,  — 


44  IN   VERONA. 

men  who  had  read  books,  and  whose  hearts  yearned 
for  the  historic  glories  of  the  old  world,  glories  which 
their  narrow  lives  might  never  see.  So,  disagreeing 
with  this  same  Juliet  in  the  matter  of  names,  they  did 
what  they  could,  and  not  being  able  to  go  to  Europe, 
did  their  best  to  bring  Europe  over  into  their  own  new 
country.  So  we  have  here  in  Maine  Eome  and  Paris, 
Palermo  and  Vi-enny  (miscalled  "  Vienna  "  by  pedants, 
and  those  thinking  themselves  better  than  other  peo 
ple),  Berlin  Falls  and  South  China,  —  in  fact,  half  the 
continent  to  choose  from,  all  in  our  own  door-yard,  as 
it  were. 

You  may  not  find  Verona  on  the  county-map ;  you 
certainly  will  not  see  it  as  you  flash  by  on  the  Maine 
Central  Railway,  on  your  way  to  Bar  Harbor.  But  if 
you  travel  for  a  certain  length  of  time  on  a  certain  quiet 
road,  grass-grown  for  the  most  part,  and  with  only  a  few 
straggling  cottages  dotting  it  here  and  there,  —  if,  as  I 
say,  you  travel  long  enough,  and  do  not  get  out  of 
patience  and  turn  back  towards  Vi-enny,  you  will  come 
suddenly  round  a  bend  of  the  road,  and  there  will  be 
Verona  before  you,  all  white  and  smiling,  tucked  away 
under  the  great  hill-shoulder  that  curls  lovingly  round 
it.  The  cleanest,  freshest,  sleepiest  little  New  England 
village !  No  myrtle,  no  laurel,  not  the  faintest  sugges 
tion  of  a  fountain !  Yet  here  lived  and  loved,  not  so 
very  long  ago,  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

They  were  simple  young  people ;  they  did  not  even 


IN   VERONA.  45 

know  their  own  names,  for  Juliet  answered  to  the 
name  of  Betsy  Garlick,  while  Eomeo  was  known  only 
as  Bije  Green ;  and  they  worked  for  the  Bute  girls. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  Bute  girls  —  who  might 
better  be  spoken  of,  if  the  custom  of  the  country 
allowed  it,  as  the  Misses  Bute  —  did  not  speak  to  each 
other.  They  lived  in  two  white  cottages,  side  by  side, 
on  the  Indiana  road  ;  and  though  they  could  not  avoid 
seeing  each  other  every  day,  no  communication  had 
taken  place  between  them  since  the  time  of  their 
mothers  death,  some  ten  years  ago.  Old  Mrs.  Bute 
had  been  partly  responsible,  all  the  neighbors  thought, 
for  this  unfortunate  state  of  things.  She  was  a  mas 
terful  woman,  and  never  allowed  her  daughters  to  call 
their  souls  their  own,  even  when  they  were  middle- 
aged  women.  Though  both  gifted  with  strong  wills, 
they  lived  in  absolute  subjection  to  the  small  withered 
autocrat  who  hardly  ever  stirred  from  her  armchair 
in  the  chimney-corner. 

She  persisted  in  treating  her  daughters,  either  of 
whom  could  have  picked  her  up  with  one  hand  and  set 
her  on  the  mantelpiece,  as  if  they  were  little  children ; 
and  they  accepted  the  position  with  meekness. 

It  was  even  said  that  when  Mrs.  Bute  felt  called  on 
to  die,  as  we  say  in  Verona,  she  insisted  on  having  her 
daughters'  mourning  made  and  tried  on  in  her  presence, 
that  she  might  be  sure  of  its  being  respectable,  and 
fitting  properly.  "  Neither  one  of  you  has  sense  to 


46  IN   VERONA. 

know  when  a  gown  wrinkles  in  the  back,"  she  said 
"  I  could  n't  lay  easy  in  my  grave,  and  you  going  round 
all  hitched  up  between  the  shoulders." 

So  the  village  dressmaker  cut  the  clothes  (black  stuff 
dresses,  and  black  cambric  pelisses  lined  with  flannel), 
and  came  in  fear  and  trembling  to  try  them  on.  It 
must  have  been  a  grim  scene :  the  two  gaunt,  middle- 
aged  women  standing  meekly  before  the  bed,  turning 
this  way  and  that  at  command ;  the  dying  woman 
issuing,  in  halting  whispers,  her  directions  for  "  seam 
and  gusset  and  band,"  while  death  had  her  by  the 
throat,  fitting  her  for  the  straight  white  garment  which 
was  making  in  the  next  room.  Not  till  she  had  seen 
her  daughters  arrayed  in  the  completed  costumes,  with 
bonnet  and  veil  to  match,  would  Eliza  Bute  turn  her 
face  to  the  wall  and  go,  feeling  that  she  had  done  her 
duty. 

Perhaps  it  was  hardly  to  be  wondered  at,  if,  so  soon 
as  the  iron  grasp  was  loosened  which  had  held  them 
all  their  dnys,  the  two  women  went  to  the  other  ex 
treme,  and  could  brook  no  suggestion  of  authority  from 
any  one,  least  of  all  from  each  other.  Perhaps  each 
was  sure  that  Mother  (awful  shade,  still  hovering  on 
the  borders  of  their  life  !)  would  be  of  her  way  of 
thinking ;  however  it  was,  the  two  sisters  quarrelled 
the  day  after  the  funeral.  The  will  was  read,  and  it 
was  found  that  the  property  was  to  be  evenly  divided 
between  them.  Evenly  divided !  It  was  a  dangerous 


IN  VERONA.  47 

phrase.  Miss  Duty  had  her  idea  of  what  "even" 
meant,  and  Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth  had  hers;  and 
neither  was  likely  to  give  up  to  the  other.  They  lis 
tened  in  grim  silence  as  the  lawyer  read  the  will ;  and 
each  decided  that  she  knew  what  Mother  meant,  and 
't  was  n't  likely  the  other  did. 

The  strife  that  followed  was  grim,  though  not  loud. 
No  wrangling  was  heard ;  no  neighbor  was  called  in 
to  keep  the  peace ;  but  after  three  days,  Miss  Resigned 
Elizabeth  sent  for  a  man  and  a  wheelbarrow,  and  re 
moved  with  all  her  goods  and  chattels  to  the  house 
next  door,  which  was  hers  by  right  of  inheritance  from 
her  grandmother. 

A  neighbor  calling  on  Miss  Duty  the  day  after  the 
separation,  found  her  in  the  spare  chamber,  seated  be 
fore  the  bed,  on  which  were  spread  out  divers  articles 
of  the  personal  property  which  had  been  her  mother's. 
There  was  one  black  lace  mitt,  six  white  stockings  and 
six  gray  ones,  half  of  an  embroidered  apron,  ditto  of  a 
nankeen  waistcoat  in  which  Father  Bute  had  been 
married  ;  item,  one  infant's  sock ;  item,  three  left-hand 
shoes.  Here,  on  what  was  evidently  the  half  of  a  green 
veil,  lay  a  slender  store  of  trinkets  :  one  mosaic  ear- 
ling,  one  garnet  one,  half  of  a  string  of  gold  beads, 
and  —  piteous  sight !  —  half  of  a  hair  bracelet,  its 
strands,  roughly  cut,  already  half  unbraided,  and  stick 
ing  out  in  silent  protest  against  the  inhuman  treat 
ment  they  had  received. 


48  IN  VERONA. 

The  neighbor  broke  out  into  indignant  inquiry,  but 
was  quickly  silenced.  Miss  Duty  was  satisfied,  and  so 
was  her  sister ;  that  being  so,  she  did  n't  know  that 
the  neighbors  had  any  call  to  be  distressed.  Good 
Mrs.  Dill  went  home  in  high  indignation,  and  before 
night  all  Verona  knew  how  "  ridiklous  "  the  Bute  girls 
had  behaved,  and  joined  with  Mrs.  Dill  in  thinking 
that  Old  Ma'am  Bute  had  better  have  left  them  a  "gar- 
deen,"  if  that  was  all  they  knew  about  how  to  treat 
good  stuff,  as  had  cost  more  money  than  ever  they 
were  likely  to  earn. 

When  Bije  Green  came  to  work  for  Miss  Duty  Bute, 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  feud  between  the  two  houses. 
He  was  not  a  Veronese,  but  came  from  that  mysterious 
region  known  as  "  out  back,"  meaning  the  remote 
country.  When,  working  in  the  garden,  he  saw  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fence  an  old  woman  (any  person 
above  thirty  was  old  to  Bije)  who  looked  almost  ex 
actly  like  the  old  woman  who  had  hired  him,  it  seemed 
the  proper  thing  to  say  "  hullo ! "  to  her,  that  being 
the  one  form  of  salutation  known  to  Bije ;  but  instead 
of  an  answering  "  hullo ! "  he  met  a  stony  stare,  which 
sent  him  back  in  confusion  to  his  potatoes.  "  She  's 
deef ! "  said  Bije  to  himself,  charitably.  "  And  my 
old  woman 's  nigh  about  dumb,  —  quite  an  asylum  be 
tween  'em."  And  he  whistled  "  Old  Dog  Tray  "  till 
Miss  Duty  came  and  told  him  to  stop  that  racket ! 

Poor  Bije  !  he  found  life  dull,  at  first,  on  the  Indiana 


IN   VERONA.  49 

road.  He  was  shy,  and  not  one  to  make  acquaintances 
easily,  even  if  Miss  Duty  had  approved  of  his  running 
down  to  the  village,  which  she  did  not.  But  he  was 
used  to  cheerful  conversation  at  home,  and  felt  the 
ne3d  of  it  stiongly  here.  His  innocent  attempts  at 
entertaining  Miss  Duty  were  generally  met  with  a 
"  H'm ! "  which  did  not  encourage  further  remarks. 
"  Nice  day  !  "  he  would  say  in  a  conciliating  manner, 
when  he  brought  in  the  wood  in  the  early  morning. 
"  H'm  ! "  Miss  Duty  would  reply,  with  a  frosty  glance 
in  his  direction. 

"  Havin'  nice  weather  right  along  !  " 

If  he  met  with  any  reply  to  this  suggestion,  it  would 
ba  a  "  H'm  ! "  even  more  forbidding ;  while  a  third 
remark,  if  he  ever  ventured  on  one,  would  be  answered 
by  swift  dismissal  to  the  woodshed,  with  the  admoni 
tion  not  to  be  "gormin'  round  here,  with  all  the  work 
to  do." 

These  things  being  so,  Bija  was  sad  at  heart,  and 
pined  for  a  certain  corner  of  the  fence  at  home,  and 
his  sister  Delilah  leaning  over  it,  talking  while  he 
hoed.  Delilah  was  only  a  girl,  but  she  could  be  some 
company  ;  and  what  was  the  use  of  having  a  tongue,  if 
you  never  used  it,  'cept  just  to  jaw  people  ?  Jawing 
never  did  no  good  that  he  could  make  out,  though  he 
did  n't  know  but  he  'd  ruther  be  jawed  than  hear  noth 
ing  at  all  from  get  up  to  go  to  bed. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  were  in  Bije's  mind  one 
4 


50  IN   VERONA. 

morning,  as  he  wrestled  with  the  witch-grass  on  the 
strip  of  green  near  the  fence  which  divided  Miss  Duty's 
lot  from  her  sister's.  He  did  not  like  witch-grass  ;  he 
never  could  see  the  use  of  the  pesky  stuff.  Delilah 
was  always  saying  that  there  was  use  for  everything ; 
Bije  wished  she  were  here,  to  tell  him  the  use  of 
witch-grass.  He  guessed  —  At  this  moment  the  tail  of 
his  eye  caught  a  flutter,  as  of  a  petticoat,  beyond  the 
dividing  fence.  Now  Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth's  petti 
coats  never  fluttered  ;  they  were  not  full  enough.  Bije 
looked  up,  and  saw  —  a  girl. 

She  was  standing  in  the  porch,  polishing  the  milk- 
pails.  She  had  curly,  fair  hair,  which  she  kept  shaking 
back  out  of  her  eyes,  — blue  eyes,  as  bright  as  the  little 
pond  at  home,  when  the  sun  shone  on  it  in  the  morn 
ing.  The  red-and-white  of  her  cheeks  was  so  pure  and 
clear,  that  Bije  thought  at  once  of  a  snow-apple ;  and 
his  hand  made  an  instinctive  movement  towards  his 
pocket,  though  it  was  not  near  the  time  for  "  snows." 
There  was  not  much  wind,  and  yet  this  girl's  things 
seemed  "  all  of  a  flutter ; "  her  pink  calico  gown,  her 
blue-checked  apron,  her  flying  curls,  —  all  were  full  of 
life  and  dancing  motion.  The  milk-pails  twinkled  in 
the  morning  sun,  catching  fresh  gleams  as  she  turned 
them  this  way  and  that.  They  were  not  common 
milk-pails,  it  appeared,  but  pure  silver,  or  they  could 
not  twinkle  so.  Also,  the  sun  was  brighter  than  usual. 
Bije  stood  gazing,  with  no  knowledge  that  his  mouth 


IN   VERONA.  51 

was  open  and  his  brown  eyes  staring  in  a  very  rude 
way.  The  witch-grass  took  breath,  and  rested  from 
the  fierce  assaults  of  the  hoe.  Bije  knew  nothing  of 
witch-grass.  He  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing. 
There  were  only  two  things  in  the  whole  world,  so  far 
as  he  knew :  a  milk-pail  and  Betsy  Garlick. 

When  Betsy  looked  up,  as  of  course  she  did  in  a 
moment,  she  saw  no  fairy  vision,  but  only  a  boy :  a 
brown  boy,  in  brown  overalls,  with  his  mouth  open, 
staring  as  if  he  had  never  seen  a  girl  in  his  life  before. 
Betsy  had  seen  plenty  of  boys,  and  she  was  not  in  the 
least  afraid  of  them ;  so  she  returned  Bije's  stare  with, 
a  calm  survey  which  took  him  all  in,  from  his  con 
scious  head  to  his  awkward  heels,  and  then,  with  a 
toss  of  her  curls  and  a  click  of  pails,  disappeared  into 
the  house. 

All  that  day,  Bije  went  about  in  a  dream.  When 
Miss  Duty  asked  him  what  he  had  been  doing  all  the 
morning,  he  answered  "  Milk-pails ; "  and  when  she 
asked  what  they  used  to  keep  off  potato-bugs  out  his 
way,  he  could  only  say  "  Pink  calico."  At  this  atrocious 
statement,  Miss  Duty  turned  sharply  on  him.  "  Bijah 
Green,"  she  said,  "  if  you  are  goin'  loony,  I  '11  thank 
you  to  take  yourself  off  home.  I  don't  want  no  naturals 
round  here,  so  now  you  know." 

Bije  was  terribly  frightened  at  this.  Yesterday  it 
would  have  been  rather  a  good  joke  to  be  discharged  by 
the  old  lady,  and  go  home  to  the  farm  with  a  month's 


52  J-ZV  VERONA. 

wages  in  his  pocket ;  to-day,  it  seemed  the  most  dread 
ful  calamity  that  could  happen  to  him ;  and  he  has 
tened  to  give  such  an  eloquent  description  of  the 
potato-bug  war,  as  carried  on  in  West  Athens  (pro 
nounced  Aythens)  that  Miss  Duty  was  mollified,  and 
reckoned  she  must  try  paris  green  herself.  When 
evening  came,  Bije  went  early  for  his  cow,  and  milked 
that  good  beast  with  undue  haste  and  trepidation. 
Then,  having  carried  the  brimming  pails  into  the 
kitchen,  he  returned  to  the  shed,  and  looked  about  him 
with  gleaming  eyes.  Yes,  there  it  was  !  the  knot-hole 
that  he  had  found  the  other  day,  when  he  was  brush 
ing  down  the  cobwebs,  —  just  opposite  the  back -porch 
of  the  house  across  the  way.  She  would  be  coming 
out  again  in  a  minute  ;  it  was  n't  likely  that  she  had 
done  milking  yet.  He  drew  up  a  broken  stool,  and 
seating  himself  on  it,  flattened  his  face  against  the 
rough  boards  of  the  shed,  and  waited.  The  door  of 
the  house  across  the  way  opened,  and  Miss  Eesigned 
Elizabeth  came  slowly  out.  She  was  younger  than 
Miss  Duty,  but  she  looked  older,  being  near-sighted, 
and  walking  with  a  stoop  and  a  shuffle.  She  was 
rather  good-looking,  with  soft  brown  hair,  and  a  little 
autumnal  red  in  her  thin  cheeks;  but  to  Bije's  dis 
torted  vision,  she  seemed  the  most  horrible  old  hag 
that  had  ever  darkened  the  earth.  Her  scant  gray 
skirt  (made  out  of  her  half  of  a  dress  of  Mother  Bute's, 
who  wore  her  skirts  full),  her  neck-handkerchief,  her 


IN   VERONA.  53 

carpet  slippers,  all  were  an  offence  to  him ;  and  he 
could  hardly  resist  the  impulse  to  call  out  to  her  to 
take  herself  out  of  his  field  of  vision,  and  leave  it  clear 
for  the  desired  one.  The  dreadful  old  woman  !  how  she 
stood  round,  as  if  folks  wanted  to  see  her,  instead  of 
wishing  she  was  in  Jericho.  She  was  actually  sitting 
down,  taking  out  her  old  knitting !  Such  things  ought 
not  to  be  allowed.  There  ought  to  be  a  law  against 
ugly  women  —  Hark  !  what  was  that  ?  Miss  Besigned 
Elizabeth  was  calling  to  somebody,  —  to  somebody  in 
the  house.  "  Betsy  !  Betsy  Garlick  !  come  out  here, 
will  you  ? " 

Why,  this  was  not  such  a  horrid  old  lady  after  all. 
Now  he  thought  of  it,  she  was  rather  nice-looking,  for 
an  old  one.  The  door  was  opening,  opening  wider. 
There  she  came  with  her  pails.  The  wonderful  girl ! 
not  flashing  and  sparkling,  as  in  the  morning  light, 
but  with  the  softness  of  twilight  in  her  eyes  and  her 
lovely  waving  hair.  What  was  it  the  other  lad  said, 
over  there  in  the  old  Verona,  at  a  minute  like  this  ? 

"  Oh,  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright  ! 
Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear !  " 

and  so  on,  in  his  glowing,  tropical  way.  But  Bije 
could  not  say  anything  of  that  sort.  His  heart  was  as 
high  as  Eomeo's,  and  seemed  to  be  beating  in  his 
throat,  as  he  gazed  at  the  fair  vision ;  but  he  knew 
nothing  of  language,  and  if  he  had  tried  to  put  his 


54  IN  VERONA. 

thoughts  into  words,  lie  would  only  have  said  :  "  Ain't 
she  slick  !  "  A  most  un-Shakespearian  Bije  !  an  ordi 
nary,  good  country-boy !  But  no  fiery  gallant  of  them 
all  was  ever  thrilled  with  purer  fire  than  burned  now 
in  his  veins.  He  wanted  to  do  something,  something 
wonderful,  for  this  girl.  What  did  all  those  fellers 
do,  in  the  story-books  Delilah  was  everlastingly  read 
ing  ?  He  wished  he  had  read  some  of  the  stories, 
instead  of  laughing  at  them  for  girl's  fool-talk.  She 
was  smiling  now ;  did  anybody  ever  smile  like  that 
before  ?  Of  course  not !  He  wished  he  were  Miss 
Resigned  Elizabeth,  to  be  smiled  at  in  that  way  ;  he 
wondered  what  it  felt  like.  But  no !  the  poor  old 
lady  was  deef  !  (she  was  not  in  the  least  deaf,  be  it 
said,  by  the  way).  Deef,  and  that  girl  talking  to  her ! 
Poor  old  lady !  It  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  deef. 

And  so  on,  and  so  on  :  Ossa  on  Pelion  of  rapture 
and  young  delight  and  wonder,  when  suddenly  a  heavy 
hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder.  The  boy  started  as  if 
he  had  been  shot.  Miss  Duty  Bute  whirled  him 
round,  away  from  the  opening  into  Paradise,  —  I 
should  say  the  knot-hole,  —  and  stooping  down, 
applied  her  eye  to  the  aperture 

The  little  scene  on  the  porch  of  the  opposite  house 
had  no  special  charm  for  Miss  Duty  :  she  only  saw  her 
sister,  Resigned  Eliz,  as  she  had  called  her  in  former 
days,  and  her  hired  girl.  The  butcher  had  told  her 
that  Resigned  Eliz  had  hired  a  girl ;  also,  she,  Miss 


IN   VERONA.  55 

IJuty,  had  rheumatism  in  her  joints,  which  made 
stooping  painful  to  her.  Therefore,  when  she  straight 
ened  her  poor  back,  and  turned  once  more  upon  the 
trembling  Bije,  her  mood  was  none  of  the  softest. 

Briefly,  he  was  told  that  if  ever  she  caught  him 
spying  upon  the  other  house,  whensoever  or  howso 
ever,  he  would  pack  off  that  moment  of  time.  He  had 
no  more  to  do  with  the  other  house  than  he  had  with 
the  Plagues  of  Egypt,  she  'd  have  him  to  know ;  and 
when  she  wanted  spying  done,  she  could  do  it  herself, 
without  hiring  no  shif  less,  long-legged,  trifling  boys  to 
do  it  for  her.  Finally,  was  she  to  have  any  kindling- 
wood  split  that  night,  or  was  she  not  ? 

This  was  very  dreadful,  and  for  some  days  Bije 
hardly  dared  to  look  over  the  fence,  much  less  to 
loiter  in  the  shed  for  an  instant.  But  what  says  the 
old  song,  the  Lover's  song,  that  perhaps  (who  knows  ?) 
may  have  been  sung  in  the  streets  when  Will  Shake 
speare  was  a  little  naughty  boy  ? 

"  Over  the  mountain, 

And  over  the  waves ; 
Under  the  fountains, 

And  under  the  graves ; 
Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey, 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way." 

This  being  so,  what  could  two  elderly  ladies,  who 
seldom  stirred  from  their  own  door-yards,  save  to  go 


55  IN  VERONA. 

to  meeting  —  what  were  they  to  do  against  the  all- 
conquering  little  god,  or  against  Abijah  Green,  his 
soldier  and  slave  ?  Bije  found  out  the  way,  uncon 
scious  of  any  fluttering  wings  about  him,  any 
mischievous,  rosy  imp  with  bow  and  arrow. 

A  posy  laid  on  the  fence ;  then  an  apple,  polished 
on  the  coat-sleeve  till  it  shone  again  ;  then  two  more 
apples  and  a  posy  beside  them,  to  show  that  there 
could  be  no  mistake  about  it. 

Betsy  was  only  eighteen,  and  if  life  was  dull  at 
Miss  Duty's,  it  was  not  exciting  at  Miss  Eesigned 
Elizabeth's.  She,  too,  had  been  cautioned  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  "  that  bold-lookin'  boy  over  t'  the 
other  house  ! "  But  Betsy  did  not  think  the  boy  was 
bold-looking.  Anyhow,  she  hoped  (but  her  hopes 
were  not  expressed  aloud)  she  had  manners  enough 
to  say  thank  you,  when  any  one  was  pretty-behaved. 
So  she  said  thank  you,  first  with  her  eyes  (because 
Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth  was  close  by,  watering  the 
flower-beds),  then  with  her  lips  ;  and  it  became  evident 
to  Bije  that  she  had  the  sweetest  voice  that  ever  was 
heard  in  the  world.  The  flowers  were  real  pretty ! 
Betsy  thought  a  sight  o'  flowers.  They  had  lots  of 
pansies  to  home,  and  she  did  miss  'em,  so  these  seemed 
real  homelike.  Did  Mr.  —  well,  there  !  some  might  think 
't  was  queer  for  her  to  be  talkin'  to  him,  and  never 
knowin'  what  his  name  was !  Bijah  Green  ?  Betsy 
wanted  to  know!  Why,  she  had  an  uncle  named 


IN   VERONA.  57 

Green,  over  to  South  Beulah.  Not  her  own  uncle  — 
he  married  her  aunt  Phrony ;  real  nice  man,  he  was. 
She  wondered  if  he  was  any  relation.  But  what  she  was 
goin'  to  say  ?  She  did  n't  suppose  Mr.  Green  cared  for 
southernwood.  There  was  a  great  root  of  it  round  by 
the  back-door  here ;  't  was  dretful  sweet,  and  she  had 
to  set  it  over,  Miss  Bute  said.  He  could  have  a  piece 
off  the  root,  just  as  well  as  not ;  only  she  did  n't  s'pose 
he  cared  for  such  common  doin's  as  southernwood. 

It  appeared  that  southernwood  had  been  Mr.  Green's 
favorite  plant  from  his  cradle,  as  one  might  say.  If 
there  was  one  thing  he  did  hanker  after,  it  was  south 
ernwood  ;  but  he  could  n't  see  her  grubbin'  up  things 
that  way.  If  he  knew  where  the  bush  was,  he  could 
get  it  himself,  just  as  easy  — 

Betsy  would  not  hear  of  that!  Besides,  she  was 
dretful  pernickety  about  folks  comin'  into  the  yard. 
There !  Betsy  did  n't  know  what  she  'd  say  this  minute, 
if  she  was  to  see  her  talkin'  to  him;  but  for  her, 
Betsy's,  part,  she  had  allers  been  brought  up  to  be 
neighborly.  Bije  chimed  in  eagerly.  'T  was  dretful 
lonesome,  specially  come  evenin's.  To  see  her  ("  her  " 
in  this  case  meant  Miss  Duty)  settin'  there,  knittin' 
for  dear  life,  and  never  a  word  to  say  to  any  one  — 
'twas  enough  to  make  any  one  feel  homesick.  Not 
but  what  she  was  good,  in  her  way,  only  't  was  a  tor- 
mentin',  up-stiff  kind  o'  way,  Drivin'  the  cow,  too! 
It  did  seem  as  though  he  should  fly,  sometimes,  drivin' 


58  IN   VERONA. 

that  critter  all  alone  from  pasture.  His  sister  allers 
went  with  him,  to  home ;  he  s'posed  that 's  why  it 
seemed  so  lonesome  now.  Where  did  she  (oh,  New 
England !  oh,  poor  little  hard-worked  pronouns !  this 
"  she  "  was  Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth  ),  —  where  did  she 
keep  her  cow  ?  Seem 's  though  — 

Seems,  Bijah  ?     Nay,  it  is  ! 

What  are  cows  and  country  roads  made  for,  I  should 
like  to  know,  save  for  the  pleasure  of  youths  and 
maidens  ?  Miss  Duty's  cow  was  kept  in  the  humplety 
field,  as  the  children  called  it,  a  mile  and  more  from 
Cuttyhunk,  the  pasture  where  Miss  Resigned  Eliza 
beth's  good  Brindle  spent  her  peaceful  days ;  yet  it  was 
strange  to  see  the  intimacy  that  sprung  up  between 
these  two  creatures  in  the  next  few  weeks. 

At  a  certain  turn  of  the  road,  Brindle  would  stop 
and  fall  to  cropping  the  grass  by  the  road-side,  swing 
ing  her  body  about  and  switching  the  flies  off  com 
fortably ;  while  her  driver,  loitering  a  few  steps  behind, 
pulled  the  early  golden-rod  or  plaited  sweet  rushes 
together,  apparently  absorbed  in  her  task,  and  only 
from  time  to  time  casting  shy  glances  down  the  other 
road,  which  led  off,  over  hill  and  dale,  to  Cuttyhunk. 
But,  by-and-by,  down  this  other  road  would  come 
another  cow,  —  not  a  happy,  leisurely  cow  like  Brindle, 
hut  a  breathless  and  much-tormented  beast  who  had 
been  hurried  out  of  all  nature  ever  since  she  left  the 
pasture,  absolutely  goaded  along  the  way  by  urgent 


JN   VERONA.  59 

word  and  gesture,  by  shakings  of  her  tail,  and  apos- 
trophies  most  unreasonable. 

"  Go  lang,  you  old  snail !  what  you  gormin'  all  over 
the  road  for  ?  Want  to  sleep  here,  do  ye  ?  Of  all  slow 
critters  ever  I  see,  you  're  the  beat  'em ;  cold  molasses 
kin  gallop,  'longside  o'  you." 

Poor  Molly  did  not  understand  this  kind  of  thing 
from  one  with  whom  she  had  been  so  friendly-intimate 
as  Bije.  She  made  such  haste  as  she  could,  poor  beast, 
and  it  was  a  great  relief  when  she  saw  Brindle's  horns 
round  the  corner ;  for  now,  she  had  already  learned 
from  expsrience,  the  hurry  was  over.  Now  she  and 
her  bovine  friend  could  take  their  way  along  the 
grassy  road,  as  slowly  as  any  cow  could  wish.  Bijah, 
who  had  come  panting  along  the  road,  breathless  with 
haste  and  repeated  adjurations,  became  suddenly 
compassionate.  The  poor  beasts  were  tired,  likely. 
'T  would  n't  do  to  hurry  them  ;  anyhow,  't  was  bad  for 
the  cream.  Oh,  Bijah  !  Bijah  !  what  would  your  pious 
grandmother  say,  if  she  were  witness  of  your  bare 
faced  duplicity  on  these  occasions  ? 

But  what  occasions  they  were !  It  was  a  pretty 
sight,  if  one  had  been  there  to  see.  The  road  was 
pretty,  to  begin  with,  —  the  Indiana  road,  with  its 
overhanging  birches  and  elms,  and  the  fringe  of  daisies 
and  golden-rod  along  the  sides.  The  evening  light  was 
soft  and  sweet,  as  if  the  sun  had  put  on  his  tenderest 
gleam  to  smile  on  Betsy ;  and  as  the  twilight  deep- 


gO  IN  VERONA. 

ened,  in  rosy  gray  softening  into  amethyst,  did  not  the 
moon  come  up,  all  clear  and  silver,  just  to  look  at 
Betsy  ?  The  white  light  shimmered  on  the  girl's  soft 
hair,  and  deepened  the  dimples  in  her  round  cheek, 
and  cast  strange  gleams  into  her  lovely  eyes.  Was  the 
other  Juliet  fairer,  I  wonder  ?  Possibly  ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  could  not  drive  cows,  nor  milk  them, 
either.  Surely  the  other  Komeo  was  not  more  pas 
sionate  than  this  dark-eyed  boy  in  his  brown  jean 
overalls,  walking  so  sedately  by  Juliet's  —  I  should 
say,  by  Betsy's  —  side,  Bije  felt  as  if  the  whole  world 
were  light  and  fire ;  the  fire  within  him,  the  light 
without.  He  thought  that  Betsy  gave  light  to  the 
moon,  not  the  moon  to  Betsy.  He  did  not  wish  he 
were  a  glove  upon  that  hand,  for  the  little  brown  hand 
had  never  worn  a  glove,  except  once,  at  the  wedding 
of  a  friend.  The  gloves  were  at  home  now,  wrapped 
in  silver  paper ;  she  meant  to  wear  them  at  her  own 
wedding.  He  did  not  swear  by  yonder  blessed  moon, 
because  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  swearing.  "  By 
gosh  !  "  was  the  only  expletive  Bije  ever  used,  and  he 
would  not  have  thought  of  using  that  in  a  lady's 
presence.  The  fire  within  burned  him;  but  what 
sweet  pain  it  was !  If  he  had  only  had  the  gift  of 
language,  this  poor,  dear  Bije,  what  floods  of  glowing 
words  he  would  have  poured  out !  How  he  would 
have  praised  her,  the  beloved  one,  and  praised  the 
night,  and  blessed  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  old 


IN   VERONA.  61 

cows,  and  everything  that  came  near  him  and  his  hap 
piness  !  But  if  he  had  spoken,  Bije  could  only  have 
said  that  it  was  a  sightly  night,  and  Betsy  would  have 
responded  that  it  was  so. 

One  of  these  sightly  nights  Bijah  found  voice,  if 
not  language.  They  were  pacing  slowly  along,  letting 
Brindle  and  Molly  have  it  all  their  own  way.  It  was 
the  full  of  the  moon,  the  harvest-moon,  and  all  the 
world  lay  bathed  in  silver  light.  They  had  been  silent 
for  a  while,  through  sheer  peace  and  content  in  each 
other ;  but  suddenly  Bije  broke  out  with,  "  I  wish 't 
I  had  a  snow-apple  ! " 

"  Why,  how  you  startled  me ! "  Betsy  responded. 
"  Why  do  you  want  a  snow-apple  now,  of  all  times  in 
the  world?  They  won't  be  ripe  for  nigh  onto  two 
months,  Bije." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  thought  of,  first  time  ever  I 
see  you  ? "  the  boy  went  on,  with  apparent  irrelevance. 
"  Well,  I  thought  of  a  snow-apple  then,  and  thought 
you  looked  the  most  like  one  of  anything  in  the  world." 

"  Well,  of  all ! "  said  Betsy. 

"  I  did !  There 's  nothing  else  as  I  know  of  that 's 
so  red  and  white,  and  so  round,  and  so  —  so  sweet, 
Betsy." 

"  Bijah  Green,  how  you  do  talk  ! "  Betsy  cried.  "  It 's 
time  we  was  gettin'  home  with  these  cows."  But  she 
did  not  quicken  her  pace,  and  Bije  noticed  that  she 
did  not. 


62  IN    VERONA. 

"Do  you  know  what  I'd  do  if  you  were  a  snow, 
Betsy  ? "  Bije  came  a  little  nearer,  and  his  voice  grew 
husky. 

"  Eat  me,  presume  likely ! "  said  Betsy,  with  a  little 
laugh  that  trembled  as  if  it  were  full  of  tears. 

"  No  ! "  cried  the  boy.  "  I  'd  pick  you  off  the  tree, 
though,  and  have  you  for  my  own,  Betsy.  I  'd  carry 
you  off,  and  run  away  with  you,  sure 's  the  world. 
Should  —  should  you  mind  much,  Betsy  ? " 

But  for  once  Betsy  had  nothing  to  say.  She  could 
only  hang  her  head,  and  look  more  and  more  like  the 
snow-apple,  as  Bije's  arm  stole  round  her,  and  his  hand 
clasped  hers.  Little  Betsy !  She  was  only  eighteen ; 
four  years  older,  it  is  true,  than  that  creature  of  fire 
and  perfume  over  in  the  other  Verona,  but  still  almost 
a  child,  according  to  New  England  ideas.  The  moon 
looked  down,  and  probably  thought  she  had  seen  the 
same  sort  of  thing  ever  since  she  was  an  asteroid,  and 
these  children  were  like  all  the  rest.  But  what  a  mis 
taken  old  moon  she  was,  —  for  there  had  never  been 
any  one  like  Betsy,  and  certainly  no  one  like  Bijah, 
since  the  world  began ;  and  it  was  all  perfectly  new 
and  strange,  and  —  and  —  they  had  a  very  pleasant 
walk  home. 

"  A  bird  of  the  air  shall  carry  the  matter ! "  What 
bird  of  all  that  fly  could  have  had  so  bad  a  heart  as  to 
tell  Miss  Kesigned  Elizabeth  of  what  was  going  on  ? 


IN   VERONA.  63 

Did  a  raven  come  on  heavy-flapping  wings,  and  croak 
it  in  her  ear  ?  Or  was  it  a  magpie,  or  a  chattering  jay  ? 
Surely  no  respectable  robin  or  oriole  would  think  of 
such  a  thing !  But,  however  the  news  reached  her,  it 
was  there,  and  the  golden  time  was  rudely  broken 
in  upon. 

Coming  in  one  evening  all  flushed  and  radiant  with 
her  new  joy,  the  child  was  met  by  her  mistress  (only 
we  do  not  say  "  mistress "  in  New  England ;  we  say 
"  she  "  or  "  her,"  as  the  case  may  be),  —  she  was  met, 
I  say,  by  Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth,  wearing  so  stern  a 
face  that  the  blush  froze  on  Betsy's  cheek,  and  the 
smile  fled  from  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  where  it 
always  loved  to  linger. 

"  Betsy  Garlick,  where  have  you  been  with  that  cow  ? " 

Betsy  faltered.  "  Been  with  her,  Miss  Bute  ?  I  Ve 
been  bringing  her  back  from  pasture,  same  as  I 
allers  do." 

"  Same  as  you  allers  do  ?  And  how 's  that  ?  Betsy 
Garlick,  ain't  you  ashamed  to  look  me  in  the  face,  and 
you  goin'  with  that  low-lived  feller  over  t*  the  other 
house?" 

But  at  this  Betsy  caught  fire.  "  He  ain't  no  low 
lived  feller ! "  she  cried,  the  blushes  coming  back  again 
in  an  angry  flood  over  cheek  and  brow  and  neck.  "  You 
can  scold  me  all  you  're  a  mind  to,  Miss  Bute,  and  I 
won't  say  nothin' ;  but  you  ain't  no  call  to  abuse 
Eijah." 


64  -IN   VERONA. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't,  ain't  I  ? "  cried  Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth, 
taking  fire  in  her  turn.  "  I  'm  to  be  shet  up  in  my  own 
house,  am  I,  by  a  girl  from  North  Beulah  ?  I  'm  to 
have  such  actions  goin'  on  under  my  nose,  and  never 
so  much  as  wink  at  'em,  am  I  ?  I  should  like  to  know ! 
You  go  to  your  room  this  minute,  Betsy  Garlick,  and 
stay  there  till  I  tell  you  to  come  out,  or  you  '11  find  out 
p'raps  more  than  you  like.  North  Beulah !  Well,  of 
all  impudence ! " 

Betsy  fled  to  her  room,  and  the  angry  woman  fol 
lowed  and  turned  the  key  upon  her.  Then,  returning 
to  her  sitting-room,  Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth  sat  down 
and  made  out  her  line  of  action  in  this  domestic  crisis. 
She  sat  for  some  time,  her  head  shaking  with  indigna 
tion  over  the  iniquities  of  this  generation ;  then  she 
went  to  the  writing-desk,  so  seldom  used,  and,  with 
stiff,  trembling  fingers,  wrote  two  notes.  One  of  the 
notes  was  posted,  being  intrusted  to  the  care  of  the 
travelling  baker,  who  went  jingling  by  just  in  the  nick 
of  time ;  the  other  was  thrust  in  at  Miss  Duty's  door 
by  a  withered  hand,  which  held  it  unflinchingly  till 
Miss  Duty  came  and  took  it,  wondering  greatly,  but 
not  opening  the  door  an  inch  wider  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  sister's  face,  —  the  face  she  had  not  looked  into 
for  ten  years. 

When  the  hand  was  withdrawn,  Miss  Duty  pro 
ceeded  to  decipher  the  note,  her  gray  hair  bristling 
with  indignation  as  she  did  so. 


IX    VERONA.  65 

SISTER  DUTY,  —  Your  help  has  been  courting  ray  hired 
girl,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  want  any  such  doings,  any 
more  than  I  do.  I  have  shet  the  girl  up  in  her  room  till 
he  is  gone,  and  sent  for  her  stepmother.  So  no  more 
from  your  sister, 

R.  E.  BUTE. 

Who  shall  paint  Miss  Duty's  wrath  ?  It  was  more 
violent  than  her  sister's,  for  she  was  of  sterner  mould ; 
and  it  was  really  a  fiery  whirlwind  that  greeted  the 
delinquent  Bijah  when  he  came  whistling  in  from  the 
barn,  cheerfully  smiling  and  at  peace  with  all  the 
world.  But  the  boy  who  faced  Miss  Duty  in  her  fury 
was  a  very  different  person  from  the  meek,  submissive 
youth  whom  she  had  learned  to  know  and  tyrannize 
over  as  Bije  Green. 

This  Bije  met  her  torrent  of  angry  words  with  head 
held  high,  and  smiling  countenance.  Ashamed  ?  No, 
he  was  n't  ashamed,  not  the  least  mite  in  the  world. 
Pick  up  his  duds  and  go  ?  Why,  of  course  he  would  — 
just  as  easy !  Should  he  wait  to  split  the  kindling- 
wood  and  bring  in  the  water  ?  Just  as  she  said ;  it 
did  n't  make  a  mite  o'  difference  to  him.  Go  right  off, 
this  minute  of  time  ?  Euther  go  than  eat,  any  time. 
One  week's  pay  —  thank  her  kindly,  much  obliged. 
The  cow  was  fed,  and  he  cal'c'lated  she  'd  find  every 
thing  pretty  slick  in  the  barn.  Eeal  pleasant  night 
for  a  walk  —  good  evenin' ! 

The  consequence  of  which  was  —  what  ?  Certainly 
'5 


66  IX   VERONA. 

not  what  Miss  Duty  had  expected,  or  Miss  Resigned, 
either. 

At  daybreak  next  morning,  when  the  gray  heads  of 
these  indignant  virgins  were  still  lying  on  their  pil 
lows,  taking  an  interval  of  peace  with  all  the  world, 
Bijah  was  under  Betsy's  window,  like  a  flame  of  fire. 
Betsy  was  not  asleep.  Oh,  no !  She  was  crying,  poor 
little  soul,  at  thought  of  going  back  to  her  step 
mother,  one  of  the  old-fashioned  kind,  and  never  seeing 
Bije  again.  For  she  would  never  see  him,  of  course. 
Hark !  Was  that  a  pebble  thrown  against  the  glass  ? 
A  peep  through  the  green  blinds,  up  went  the  little 
window,  softly,  softly,  and  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world 
leaned  out,  showing  her  sweet  tear-stained  face  in  the 
faint  gray  light,  —  a  sight  which  made  Bije  more  fiery 
than  ever.  Softly  she  bade  him  begone,  for  she  dared 
not  speak  to  him.  How  did  he  know  Miss  Bute  was  n't 
looking  at  him  this  minute,  out  of  her  window  ? 

It  appeared  that  Bije  did  not  care  if  twenty  Miss 
Butes  were  looking  at  him,  though  one  was  enough  to 
frighten  the  crows.  Betsy  was  to  put  on  her  bunnit 
that  minute,  and  come  along  with  him.  Door  locked  ? 
What  did  that  matter,  he  should  like  to  know  ?  He 
should  laugh  if  she  was  to  be  kept  shet  up  there  like  a 
mouse  in  a  trap.  Send  her  home  to  her  stepmother  ? 
He  'd  like  to  see  them  try  it,  that  was  all.  Never  mind 
the  things !  Come  right  along !  She  'd  ben  cryin' ! 
He  'd  like  to  get  hold  of  them  as  made  her  cry.  There  'd 


IN   VERONA.  67 

be  some  cryin'  round,  but  it  would  n't  be  hers.  Come  ! 
Wh)  did  n't  Betsy  come  ?  They  'd  take  the  cows  out 
to  pasture  this  once  more,  —  he  did  n't  want  the  dumb 
critters  to  suffer,  and  't  was  n't  likely  the  old  cats  could 
get  any  help  before  night,  —  and  then  they  'd  go.  Go 
where  ?  Now  Betsy  knew  that  well  enough.  To  Friar 
Laurence,  of  course  (Bije  called  him  parson  instead  of 
friar,  and  he  spelled  his  name  with  a  w  instead  of  a  u, 
but  these  are  mere  trifles  of  detail),  to  get  married. 
"Where  else  should  they  go  ?  Was  n't  she  his  Betsy, 
his  own  girl  ?  Did  she  think  she  was  goin'  to  stay 
there  and  be  hectored,  while  he  was  round  ?  Parson 
Liwrence  was  to  home,  Bije  saw  him  only  last  night. 
Now  could  she  climb  down  that  grape-vine  ?  He  reck 
oned  she  could,  and  he  'd  be  standin'  ready  to  catch 
her  if  her  foot  should  slip. 

"  Oh,  Bije !  you  take  my  breath  away,  you  're  so 
dretful  speedy.  Why,  I  can't  —  no  way  in  the  world. 
What  —  where  should  I  go  then,  if  —  if  we  did  —  do 
what  you  say  ?  Not  that  I  can  —  with  no  clo'es  but 
what  I  Ve  got  on.  The  idea ! " 

"Go?  go  home,  of  course,  to  mother's.  Won't  she 
be  glad  to  see  ye?  Won't  Delilah  half  eat  ye  up, 
she  '11  be  so  pleased  ?  That 's  all  you  know,  Betsy. 
And  the  help  you'll  be,  and  me  too!  Mother  was 
dretful  onreconciled  to  my  goin'  away,  but  I  felt  to  go 
and  see  something  of  the  world.  And  now  I  Ve  seen 
all  I  want  to,  and  I  'm  good  and  ready  to  go  home, 
Betsy;  but  not  alone." 


68  IN   VERONA. 

How  silver-sweet,  indeed,  sound  lovers'  tongues  by 
night !  But  no  sweeter  than  now  in  the  early  morn 
ing,  when  all  the  world  was  as  young  and  fresh  as 
Betsy,  and  as  full  of  love  and  tenderness.  In  truth,  it 
was  the  hour  for  a  bridal.  The  air  was  full  of  bridal- 
veils  :  floating  wreaths  of  silver  fog  that  hung  soft  on 
the  trees,  and  shimmered  against  the  hill-sides,  and 
here  and  there  began  to  soften  into  golden  and  rosy 
tints  as  the  light  strengthened.  They  were  all  over 
the  grass,  too,  these  bridal-tokens,  in  tiny  webs  of 
purest  spun-silver,  diamond-set.  A  carpet  of  pearls 
was  spread  for  Betsy's  little  feet,  and  she  would  never 
cry  out,  as  slug-a-bed  maidens  do,  if  the  pearls  and 
diamonds  wetted  her  shoes.  Is  the  bride  ready? 

"  Red  as  a  rose  is  she. 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy." 

Hark  to  them  now !  They  are  tuning  their  instru 
ments  in  every  branch  of  the  elm-tree,  cheep,  twitter, 
trill ;  and  now  they  burst  out  in  a  triumphal  chorus 


of  song :  — 


"  0  Hymen,  Hymenaee  !  " 


and  Betsy  needs  neither  Mendelssohn  nor  Wagner  to 
tell  her  what  a  wedding-march  is.  In  very  sooth,  are 
there  no  young  people  beside  Betsy  and  Bijah  who  know 
enough  to  be  married  in  the  early  morning,  and  begin 
their  first  day  together  ? 

For  Betsy  can  hold  out  no  longer.     She  retires  to 


IN   VERONA.  69 

put  on  the  pink  calico  gown,  because  Bije  will  not  hear 
of  her  being  married  in  any  other.  It  is  a  pity  that 
she  will  put  on  her  best  hat,  instead  of  the  pretty 
sun-bonnet ;  but  one  cannot  expect  a  girl  to  be  married 
in  a  "  slat."  She  ties  up  her  little  bundle  with  trem 
bling  hands,  while  her  cheeks  glow  and  her  heart 
beats  so  that  she  fancies  Miss  Bute  must  hear  it  in 
the  room  below. 

Now  she  peeps  out  again,  but  shrinks  back,  afraid 
of  the  fire  in  the  brown  boy's  eyes,  and  the  passion  of 
his  outstretched  arms.  0  Eomeo !  Eomeo !  But 
the  whisper,  "  Betsy,  my  Betsy  ! "  brings  her  out  again, 
with  a  little  proud,  tearful  smile.  Yes,  she  is  his 
Betsy.  He  is  good  and  true ;  he  will  take  care  of  her. 
She  would  trust  all  the  world  to  Bijah. 

Carefully  now !  The  trellis  is  strong.  (Had  not 
Bijah  tested  it  in  the  night,  when  she  was  sobbing  in 
her  sleep,  to  see  that  all  was  safe  for  her  ? )  One  foot 
on  this  round  —  so  !  Now  down,  slowly,  carefully  ; 
take  care  of  this  step,  for  it  is  a  weak  one !  Drop  the 
bundle  —  there  !  Safe  at  last !  At  last !  "  All  the 
world  and  we  two,"  nothing  else  beside.  As  Betsy's 
foot  touches  the  ground,  up  comes  the  sun  to  look  at 
her.  A  long  shaft  of  golden  light  touches  her  fair 
head,  and  lies  like  a  benediction  on  her  brow.  The 
boy  gazes  at  her,  and  sees  no  other  sun.  Ah,  Juliet ! 
if  the  measure  of  thy  joy  be  heap'd  like  mine,  and  that 
thy  skill  be  more  to  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy 


70  IN   VERONA. 

breath  this  neighbor  air,  and  let  rich  music's  tongue 
unfold  the  imagin'd  happiness  that  both  receive  in 
either  by  this  dear  encounter.  Call  softly,  though, 
softly,  so  as  not  to  wake  the  old  ladies:  "  Co  'boss ! 
Co' boss!"  Push  the  mossy  gate,  and  let  the  good, 
silent  creatures  out,  the  confidants  of  our  love  these 
many  weeks.  Come,  sweet  Capulet !  Come,  Betsy, 
and  let  us  drive  the  cows  to  pasture ! 

Great  was  the  wrath  in  the  virgin  bosoms  of  the 
Misses  Bute  when  the  flight  of  Betsy  and  her  dark- 
eyed  lover  was  discovered.  Miss  Duty  relieved  her 
feelings  by  a  furious  bout  of  house-cleaning,  and 
scrubbed  and  scoured  as  if  she  were  determined  to 
purge  the  house  from  the  very  memory  of  Bijah  Green. 
But  Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth  had  a  touch  of  rheuma 
tism,  and  could  not  take  refuge  in  that  solace  of 
womankind.  She  could  only  sit  and  fret,  poor  soul, 
and  wish  she  had  some  one  to  talk  it  over  with. 
Dear  to  goodness  !  Come  times  like  this,  one  did  feel 
forsaken.  Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth  almost  felt  that 
she  could  make  up  with  her  sister,  for  the  sake  of  the 
common  cause  of  anger  they  now  had.  She  glanced 
across  the  way,  as  she  huddled  up  in  her  shawl,  taking 
the  sun  on  the  back-porch.  If  she  had  seen  any  soft 
ness  in  the  lines  of  Miss  Duty's  back,  as  she  stood 
washing  windows  on  her  own  porch,  Miss  Resigned 
Elizabeth  almost  felt  as  if  she  could  cough,  or  perhaps 


IN    VERONA.  71 

even  speak,  just  to  pass  the  time  of  day.  But  Miss 
Duty's  back  was  as  rigid  as  her  principles ;  and  though 
she  knew  well  enough  that  her  sister  was  near,  she 
gave  no  sign  of  consciousness.  The  younger  sister  felt 
forlorn  and  old,  and  drew  her  shawl  closer  around  her, 
as  if  a 'cold  air  blew  from  that  stiff  figure  on  the  other 
porch. 

But  't  was  warmer  here  than  in  the  house,  anyway. 

The  house  seemed  strangely  cold  and  cheerless  since 
Betsy  went  away.  There  was  no  one  singing  in  the 
little  pantry,  or  making  a  cheerful  clatter  among  the 
milk-pails.  If  Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth  had  only  known 
how  things  were  going  to  turn  out,  she  would  never 
have  hired  a  girl ;  but  now,  it  did  n't  seem  as  if  she 
could  get  along  without  one,  —  coming  winter,  too. 

But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  get  a  girl  in  Verona. 
"  Help  is  tumble  skurce ! "  was  the  answer  to  all  Miss 
Resigned  Elizabeth's  inquiries ;  nor  did  Miss  Duty  fare 
better  in  her  search  for  a  boy  to  fill  the  place  of  the 
delinquent  Bijah.  They  both  had  to  send  for  old 
John,  the  village  chore-man,  a  surly  elder,  who 
grumbled  bitterly  at  the  half-mile  walk  on  the  Indi 
ana  road,  and  wanted  to  know  what  folks  lived  out 
there  in  the  wilderness  for,  anyway.  A  sad  time  the 
poor  ladies  had  now.  Their  pails  were  mixed  up, 
because  old  John  saw  no  reason  for  giving  way  to  such 
foolishness  on  the  part  of  the  Bute  girls,  with  whom 
he  had  gone  to  school  forty  years  before,  and  who  had 


72  IN    VERONA. 

never  been  so  all  creation  as  they  thought  they  were, 
that  he  knew  of.  The  indignant  maidens  found 
baskets  marked  with  hostile  initials  in  the  shed ;  and 
if  old  John  did  not  find  what  he  wanted  on  the  prem 
ises  of  one  sister,  he  coolly  took  it  from  the  other 
house,  without  so  much  as  "  by  your  leave."  "  They 
could  not  even  tell  whether  they  were  drinking  their 
own  cow's  milk,  or  that  of  the  critter  over'n  the  next 
yard ;  for  John  drove  the  cows  together  to  whichever 
pasture  he  happened  to  fancy,  and  milked  them  to 
gether,  whistling  defiance  as  he  did  so.  Any  remon 
strance  was  met  with  the  announcement  that  he, 
John,  was  only  coming  to  accommodate,  and  the 
sooner  they  found  some  one  else  to  do  their  putterin', 
the  better  he  should  be  pleased. 

It  was  really  a  dreadful  state  of  things.  Why,  they 
might  almost  as  well  be  living  together  again,  Miss 
Duty  thought ;  and  Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth  thought 
so,  too.  And  so  the  days  wore  on,  and  the  weeks, 
and  made  themselves  into  months ;  and  the  Misses 
Bute  mourned  in  secret  for  Betsy  Garlick  and  Bijah 
Green. 

A  year  passed,  as  years  do,  whether  people  are  com 
fortable  or  not.  Miss  Duty  and  Miss  Resigned  Eliz 
abeth  were  not  comfortable;  but  nobody  seemed  to 
care,  and  help  continued  to  be  "tumble  skurce." 
Summer  had  come  again,  the  late  summer  even,  and 
the  harvest-moon.  One  evening,  just  at  sunset,  as 


IN   VERONA.  73 

Miss  Duty  was  straining  the  milk,  there  came  a  sharp 
knock  at  the  door.  Miss  Duty  did  not  altogether 
approve  of  people's  knocking  at  her  door  at  any  time, 
and  it  was  a  special  outrage  just  now,  when  anybody 
with  brains  in  his  head  must  know  that  she  was  busy ; 
so  she  set  down  the  pan  and  waited  to  see  what 
would  come  next.  Another  knock  came  next,  so  im 
perious  that  Miss  Duty  wiped  her  hands  on  her 
apron  and  went  to  the  door,  outwardly  calm,  but 
inwardly  raging. 

There  stood  Calvin  Parks,  the  driver  of  the  Beulah 
stage,  with  a  straw  in  his  mouth  and  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye. 

"  Lady  out  here  to  see  you,  Miss  Bute,"  he  said. 
"  Very  important  business.  Good  evenin' !  " 

He  was  gone  before  the  indignant  lady  could  say  a 
word.  If  you  came  to  think  of  it,  this  was  shameless 
impudence.  A  lady  indeed  !  An  agent,  likely,  selling 
some  trash  that  was  n't  fit  for  stove-kindlings.  At 
any  rate,  Miss  Duty  must  go  and  give  the  woman  a 
piece  of  her  mind,  comin'  traipsin'  round,  just  when 
folks  was  busy.  The  idea! 

Out  she  went,  fire  in  her  eye,  thunder  ready  rolling 
on  her  tongue.  Out  she  went,  and  found  —  Betsy 
Garlick. 

Betsy  Green,  rather;  for  the  maiden  Betsy  never 
had  this  air  of  prosperity,  this  sweet,  matronly  look ; 
was  never  dressed  like  this  young  woman,  who  sat  on 


74  IN    VERONA. 

the  boundary-stone  that  divided  Miss  Duty's  lot  from 
that  of  the  other  house,  and  smiled,  —  actually  smiled 
in  Miss  Duty's  face ;  and  in  her  sister's  too,  for  Calvin 
Parks  had  summoned  Miss  Kesigned  Elizabeth  also, 
and  she  was  approaching  with  feebler,  slower  steps. 
And  who  was  this,  standing  by  Betsy's  side,  erect, 
beaming,  jubilant  ?  Who  but  the  recreant  Bijah  ? 

"  Oh,  Miss  Butes  ! "  cried  Betsy,  lifting  her  sweet 
face  to  one  and  then  to  the  other  of  the  sisters. 
"  Please,  Bijah  and  me  could  n't  pass  through  Verony 
without  stoppin'  to  pass  the  time  of  day,  and  see  how 
you  was  gettin'  on.  We  're  real  sorry  we  went  off'  and 
left  you  that  way,  without  notice.  'T  wan't  right,  we 
know  that  now ;  but,  then,  we  could  n't  find  no  other 
way  to  fix  it,  seemed 's  though.  I  hope  you  don't  bear 
malice,  Miss  Butes.  We  Ve  done  real  well,  Bijah  and 
me.  We  're  goin'  now  to  look  at  a  farm  in  Cortez  't 
we  Ve  heard  of.  Bijah's  grandmother  has  left  him 
quite  consid'able  of  means,  for  us,  and  we  want  to  have 
a  place  of  our  own,  though  no  one  could  n't  be  kinder 
than  Mother  Green  and  Delilah  has  been.  I  —  I  hope 
you  Ve  both  been  right  smart,  this  time,  and  had  good 
help  right  along  ?  " 

Oh,  wicked  little  Betsy  !  You  knew  very  well  that 
they  have  not  been  right  smart.  Calvin  Parks  told 
you  and  Bijah  all  about  their  forlorn  condition,  and 
how  old  John  bullied  them  (How  did  he  know  ?  Why, 
what  is  the  use  of  being  a  stage-driver,  if  you  do  not 


IN    VERONA.  75 

know  everything  ?  ),  and  you  have  come  here  with  the 
very  slyest  scheme  in  your  little  head  that  ever  kind 
ness  and  cleverness  concocted.  And  now  you  are 
going  to  play  your  trump-card,  seeing  that  the  two 
ladies  are  still  silent,  each,  perhaps,  waiting  for  the 
other  to  speak. 

"  And  another  reason  we  had  for  stoppin',"  says 
Betsy,  looking  down  at  a  great  bundle  in  her  lap,  from 
which  faint  sounds  now  began  to  issue.  "Oh,  Miss 
Butes,  we  —  I  did  feel  to  have  you  see  Baby,  'cause  I 
don't  believe  you  ever  did  see  such  a  darling  hi  this 
world."  With  these  words,  she  drew  the  shawl  aside, 
and  there  on  her  lap  lay  the  child,  all  warm  and  rosy, 
just  waking  from  his  nap,  and  stretching  his  little 
limbs,  and  blinking  his  eyes  in  the  light. 

A  baby  !  When  had  the  Bute  ladies  seen  a  baby  as 
near  as  this  ?  Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth  felt  a  tugging 
at  her  heart-strings;  she  had  always  been  fond  of 
children.  Miss  Duty  felt  —  she  hardly  knew  what; 
but  she  saw  the  tears  on  her  sister's  cheek ;  saw,  too, 
how  old  and  feeble  she  had  grown,  and  what  a  pitiful 
look  there  was  in  her  pale  blue  eyes.  And  yet  she 
had  a  look  of  Mother,  too  ! 

At  this  moment  the  baby  gave  a  crow  and  a  kick, 
and  made  a  grab  at  Miss  Duty's  dress.  In  the  effort, 
he  nearly  rolled  off  his  mother's  lap.  Instinctively 
the  two  sisters  bent  down  to  catch  him,  and  as  they 
did  so  their  heads  came  together  with  a  smart  crack. 


76  ^r   VERONA. 

Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth  began  to  cry,  she  could  not 
tell  why,  and  Miss  Duty  laughed.  "  You  ain't  fit  to 
live  alone,  Resigned  Eliz  ! "  she  said,  and  she  hardly 
recognized  her  own  voice. 

"  Well,  I  ain't,  sister  ;  that 's  a  fact ! "  responded 
Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth,  meekly.  "  My  eyesight  ain't 
what  it  was.  But  he  is  a  lovely  child,  Betsy;  and  — 
and  I  'rn  right  glad  to  see  you,  Betsy,  if  you  did  n't  act 
quite  as  you  should." 

"  Why,  you  're  as  blind  as  a  mole  ! "  cried  the  elder 
sister,  in  high  good  humor.  "  And  you  ain't  had  the 
sense  to  get  glasses  fitted."  (Miss  Duty  could  read 
the  very  smallest  print,  as  well  as  she  could  twenty 
years  ago  )  "  The  idea  !  And  that  thin  dress  ain't  fit 
for  you  to  wear  this  cold  day.  "  Miss  Duty  seemed  to 
meditate.  "  Bije  Green  ! "  she  said  sharply,  turning  for 
the  first  time  to  her  quondam  "  help" 

"  Yes,  ma'am ! "  said  Bije,  meekly.  He  had  kept 
silence  till  now,  having  absolute  confidence  in  Betsy's 
diplomatic  powers;  but  now  he  stepped  boldly  for 
ward,  and  met  Miss  Duty's  gaze  without  flinching. 

"You  behaved  scandalous,  Bije  Green,  when  you 
was  here  before,  as  well  you  know.  But  I  'm  willin' 
to  let  bygones  be  bygones,  seein'  things  is  how  they 
is.  You  go  get  the  wheelbarrow,  and  bring  it  here. 
Resigned  'Liz,"  she  added,  turning  to  her  sister,  "  go  on 
in,  and  pack  up  your  things.  I  s'pose  it 's  fitting  I  should 
see  to  you,  from  now  on.  You  come  home,  and  we  '11 


IN   VERONA.  77 

see.  Mebbe  I  used  to  be  a  little  cuterin',  sometimes 
—  though  you  did  try  me." 

"  I  know  I  did,  sister ! "  Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth 
cried.  "  Most  prob'ly  the  fault  was  mine,  though  I  did 
feel  your  cuttin'  up  the  hair  bracelet.  But  there ! 
I  Ve  been  dretful  lonesome  sence  Betsy  went.  I  —  I  'd 
be  real  glad  to  come  home,  sister  ! " 

"  So  that 's  all  there  is  to  it, "  said  Miss  Duty,  in  a 
final  manner.  "As  for  the  other  house  — 

"  Miss  Bute ! "  cried  Betsy  Green,  her  eyes  spark 
ling,  her  breath  coming  quickly.  "  We  —  we  were  n't 
so  dretful  set  on  goin'  to  Cortez.  We  'd  enough  sight 
ruther  find  a  place  nearer  home.  I  never  thought  —  " 
here  she  stopped  short,  being  a  truthful  Betsy  ;  for  she 
had  thought,  and  planned,  and  hoped  in  her  kind  little 
heart,  and  now  here  was  everything  coming  out  just  as 
she  hoped  it  would.  "  I  'd  ruther  live  here  than  any 
where  else  in  the  world  ! "  she  said  simply.  "  'T  was 
here  I  saw  Bijah  first,  and  all ;  and  you  was  real  kind 
to  me,  Miss  Bute,  and  I  do  love  Brindle." 

"  Them  cows  has  been  treated  scand'lous,"  said  Bije, 
lifting  up  his  testimony.  "  Whoever 's  had  the  doin' 
for  'em !  All  banged  about,  same  as  if  the'  was  yaller 
dogs.  I  took  a  look  at  'em  as  we  come  along,  and  I 
felt  to  pity  'em,  now  I  tell  you.  I  could  take  care  of 
'em,  Miss  Bute,  jest  as  well  as  not,  with  what  I  had  of 
rny  own,  and  they  wouldn't  suffer  none.  I  think  a 
sight  of  that  red  cow,  and  the  other  one,  too." 


78  IN   VERONA. 

"  And  I  could  do  for  both  of  you,"  cried  Betsy,  "  all 
you  'd  want  done  —  me  and  Bije  together.  I  could 
run  over  every  mornin'  and  afternoon,  and  clean  up  if 
you  was  n't  feelin'  smart,  and  Bije  could  do  the  chores. 
And  —  and  there  'd  be  Baby  for  company  ! "  she  added, 
with  a  little  downward  look  of  heavenly  pride,  —  the 
very  look,  I  declare,  of  a  certain  Bellini  Madonna,  who 
holds  her  lovely  state  in  Venice.  But  now  the  baby 
thought  his  turn  had  come,  and  after  a  careful  scru 
tiny  of  the  two  elderly  women,  he  held  out  his  arms 
and  fairly  shouted  at  Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth. 

"  You  blessed  creetur  ? "  cried  the  poor  woman, 
pouncing  upon  him  with  the  pathetic  hunger  of  a 
woman  who  was  meant  for  a  mother.  "  Did  he  want 
to  come,  bless  his  heart  ?  Well,  he  should  ! "  and  she 
took  the  child  up,  and  hugged  and  cuddled  it  "real 
knowin',"  as  Betsy  said  to  herself.  Miss  Duty  looked 
on  in  amazement.  She  had  not  the  mother  nature. 
"  Why,  Resigned  'Liz,  you  're  fairly  childish.  The 
idea ! "  She  paused,  feeling  rebuked,  she  knew  not 
why,  by  the  joy  in  her  sister's  pinched  and  faded  face. 
Miss  Resigned  Elizabeth  had  not  had  a  joyous  life. 

"  Well,  if  't  is  to  be  so,"  Miss  Duty  continued,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  Betsy  and  the  younger  sister  held 
their  breath  and  Bije  thought  about  the  cows.  "  If 
't  is  to  be  so,  so  it  will  be,  I  s  'pose.  I  dono'  but  you 
can  go  right  in,  Betsy,  if  it 's  so  you  can  stay.  My 
sister  ain't  goin'  to  spend  another  night  there.  Perhaps 


/Ar   VERONA.  79 

you  '11  help  her  lay  her  things  together.  And  Bije,  if 
you  feel  to  milk  the  cows  to-night  —  I  'in  free  to  say  I 
should  like  to  send  that  John  Peaslee  about  his  busi 
ness,  after  the  hectorin'  he  's  give  us  this  late.  You  '11 
find  the  pails  —  " 

But  Bijah  was  already  gone,  whistling  joyously.  As 
if  he  did  n't  know  where  the  milk-pails  were ! 

"Betsy,"  Miss  Duty  continued,  turning  back  to 
instruct  the  new  tenant  as  to  her  course  of  action. 
But  Betsy  was  gone,  too ;  flown  into  the  house  with 
her  baby,  like  a  bird  into  its  nest.  Only  Miss  Eesigned 
Elizabeth  remained,  looking  at  her  with  eyes  that 
seemed  to  grow  more  plaintive  and  more  helpless 
every  minute,  as  the  burden  of  responsibility  dropped 
from  her  tired  shoulders. 

'  You  go  right  in  the  house  this  minute,  Resigned 
'Liz  ! "  said  Miss  Duty,  severely.  "  Gettin'  your  death 
out  here  in  this  night-air !  The  idea  ! "  And  with  a 
frown  that  was  better  than  a  smile,  she  went  into  the 
house,  driving  her  sister  before  her. 

"  A  plague  o'  both  your  houses  ? "  Nay !  only  joy 
on  one  side  and  the  other  of  the  white  picket-fence. 
On  the  one  side,  content  and  peaceful  days,  with  ten 
years'  gossip  to  talk  over,  and  the  sense  of  being  cared 
for,  and  of  having  "  folks  "  once  more.  Happy  old  age 
coming  softly,  bringing  with  it  grace  and  gentle  words, 
and  ways  which  their  grim  youth  had  never  known ; 
finally,  the  absolute  rest  which  came  from  Betsy's  and 


80  IN  VERONA. 

Bijah's  watchful  love  and  care,  and  the  strange  pleasure 
of  being  called  "  aunt "  by  the  baby,  and  the  succeeding 
babies.  Yes,  the  Bute  girls  were  happy  for  the  first 
time  in  their  lives. 

And  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence  ?  Ah !  there  it 
was  not  the  calm  peace  of  evening,  but  the  fresh  joy  of 
morning  and  of  spring.  Seeing  that  there  was  no  one 
in  the  world  who  could  hold  a  candle  to  Bijah,  and 
that  Betsy  was  the  best  woman  there  was  in  these 
parts,  let  alone  furrin  lands,  why  should  they  not 
have  been  happy  ?  And  beside  all  this,  had  they  not 
the  most  wonderful  children,  probably,  that  had  ever 
been  seen  ?  There  was  not  a  doubt  of  it  in  Betsy's 
mind,  nor  in  Miss  Eesigned  Elizabeth's.  Taking  these 
things  into  consideration,  together  with  the  fact  that 
their  cows  were  most  remarkable  cows,  and  their  hens 
the  finest  that  had  ever  clucked  in  Verona,  is  it  to  be 
wondered  at  that  our  little  friends  were  very  happy, 
and  the  old  ladies  so  good,  and  one  of  'em  an  angel 
if  she  ever  dared  to  call  her  soul  her  own  ? 

A  blessing  on  both  houses  !  Peace  and  good-will, 
and  all  loving  and  tender  thoughts  !  And  may  the 
sun,  as  he  rises  over  the  great  hill-shoulder,  always 
cast  his  brightest  beams  on  the  Indiana  road. 


THE    END. 


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